THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


- 


POPULAR    NOVELS 

BY 

MRS.   MARY  J.   HOLMES. 


TEHTEST  AND  SUNSHINE. 
ENGLISH  ORPHANS. 
HOMESTEAD  ON  HILLSIDE. 
'LENA  RIVERS. 
MEADOW  BROOK.. 
DORA  DEAKE. 
COUSIN  MAUD&. 
MARIAN  GREY. 
EDITH  LTLE. 
DAISY  THORNTON. 
CHATEAU  D'OH  (New). 


DARKNESS  AND  DAYLIGHT. 

HUGH  WoilTHINeTON. 

CAMERON  PRIDE. 
ROSE  MATHER. 

ETHELYN'S  MISTAXH. 

MlLLBANK. 

EDNA  BROWNING. 
WEST  LAWN. 
MILDRED. 
FORREST  HOUSE. 
MADELINE  (New). 


Mrs.  Holmes  is  a  peculiarly  pleasant  and  fascinating 
writer.  Her  books  are  always  entertaining,  and  she 
has  the  rare  faculty  of  enlisting  the  sympathy 
and  affections  of  her  readers,  and  of  hold 
ing  their  attention  to  her  pages  with 
deep  and  absorbing  interest." 


published  uniform  with  this  volume.    Price  $1.50 
each.    Sold  everywhere,  and  Bent/r«« 
by  mail  on  receipt  of  price. 


BY 


W. 


CARLETON  &  CO.,  Publishers, 
New  York. 


WEST  LAWN 


AND 


THE  RECTOR  OF  ST.  MABTS. 


BY 

MKS.  MAEY  J.  HOLMES, 

AUTHOR  Or 

fXHFEST  AND  SUNSHINE. — 'LENA  RIVERS.— MARIAN  GRET. — MKilXXW* 

BROOK.— ENGLISH  ORPHANS. — COUSIN  MAUDE. — HOMESTEAD. 

—DORA  DEANE.— DARKNESS  AND  DAYLIGHT.— HUQH 

WORxa'-NOTON. — THE  CAMERON  PRIDE.— ROCB 

MATHER.— ETHELYN'S  MISTAKE.— Ma> 

BANK.— EDNA  BBOWNINO. 


NEW   YORK: 

G.    IV.    Carleton    &f   Co.,    Publishers. 

LONDON:   S.    LOW,    SON   &    CO. 
M.DCCC.LXXXII. 


altered  Menrdiag  to  Act  of  Congress,  :n  the  y«u  1874,  If 

DANIEL    HOLMES, 
fit  tha  Offiae  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washing** 


TROW'S 

PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMPANY, 
205-213  East  nth.  St.,   • 

NKW    YORK. 


CONTENTS. 


CHATTER  PAGB 

I. — Dora's  Diary 1 

IL — Author's  Journal 15 

III.— Dr.  West's  Diary 19 

IV. — Johnnie's  Letter  to  Dora. 27 

"V .— .Dora's  Diary 31 

VI.— Letters .     14 

VII. — Dora's  Diary  Continued 54 

VIII.— Jessie's  Diary 80 

IX.— Extract  from  Dr.  West's  Diary 84 

X.— Dora's  Diary 87 

XI.— Richard's  Story 102 

XII.— The  Shadow  of  Death 119 

XIII.— At  Beechwood 134 

XIV.— In  the  Spring 146 

XV. — Waiting  for  the  Answer. 159 

XVI.— The  Engagement 169 

XVII.— Extract  from  Dr.  West's  Journal 178 

XVIII.— Poor  Max 182 

XIX.— Anna. 193 

XX.— Eichard 209 

XXI.  -  The  Night  before  the  Wedding 212 

XXII. — Down  by  the  Lake  Shore 216 

XXIII.  —  The  Bridal  Day 226 

XXIV.— The  Shadows  of  Death. 235 

XXV.— Breaking  the  Engagement 210 

XXVI.— Giving  in  Marriage 254 

XXVII.— More  of  Marriage 2G3 

XXVIII.—  Dora's  Diary 270 

O  - 


CONTENTS. 


THE  RECTOR  OF  ST.  MARKS. 

CHAPTER  PAOB 

L— Friday  Afternoon , 283 

II.— Saturday  Afternoon. 291 

III.— Sunday 299 

IV.— Blue  Monday 309 

V.— Tuesday 319 

VI.— Wednesday 328 

VII.— At  Newport 341 

VIII.— Showing  How  it  Happened 354 

IX. —Anna 3G8 

X.— Mrs.  Meredith's  Conscience 379 

XI.— The  Letter  Received 383 

XII.— Valencia 8«3 

JLIII.— Christmas  Day .  503 


WEST    LAWN. 


CHAPTER  L 
DORA'S  DIARY. 

"  BEECHWOOD,  June  12th,  I 
11  o'clock  P.M.        J 

|T  last,  dear  old  book,  repository  of  all  my  secre* 
thoughts  and  feelings,  I  am  free  to  come  to  you 
once  more,  and  talk  to  you  as  I  can  talk  to  no 
one  else.  Daisy  is  asleep  in  her  crib  after  a  longer  strug 
gle  than  usual,  for  the  little  elf  seemed  to  have  a  suspi 
cion  that  to-morrow  night  some  other  voice  than  min« 
would  sing  her  lullaby.  Bertie,  too,  the  darling,  cried 
himself  to  sleep  because  I  was  going  away,  while  the 
other  children  manifested  in  various  ways  their  sorrow 
at  my  projected  departure.  Bless  them  all,  how  I  do 
love  children,  and  hope  if  I  am  ever  married,  I  may 
have  at  least  a  dozen ;  though  if  twelve  would  make  me 
twice  as  faded  and  sickly,  and, — and, — yes,  I  will  say  it, — 
as  peevish  as  Margaret's  six  have  made  her,  I  should 
rather  be  excused.  But  what  nonsense  to  be  written  bj 


g  DORA'S  DIARY. 

me,  Dora  Freeman,  spinster,  aged  twenty- eigh  fc,— tht 
Beechwood  gossips  said  when  the  new  minister  went 
home  with  nie  from  the  sewing  society.  But  they  were 
mistaken,  for  if  the  family  Bible  is  to  be  trusted,  I  waa 
only  twenty-five  last  Christmas,  and  I  don't  believe  I 
look  as  old  as  that." 

Here  there  was  a  break  in  the  diary,  while  Dora 
glanced  in  the  mirror  at  a  graceful  little  figure,  with 
wlopi  ig  shoulders  and  white  neck,  surmounted  by  a  well 
•hap  sd  head  with  masses  of  reddish-brown  hair,  waving 
just  enough  to  suggest  an  idea  of  the  curls  into  which  it 
might  be  easily  coaxed;  low  forehead;  piquant  nose, 
witli  an  undeniable  curve  which  ill-natured  people  call  a 
tur  <i-up ;  bright,  honest  eyes  of  reddish-brown,  like  the 
hair;  mouth  which  did  not  look  as  if  it  had  ever  said  a 
di/ agreeable  thing  ;  rows  of  white,  even  teeth  ?  with  com 
plexion  remarkable  for  nothing  except  that  it  was  nat 
ural,  and  just  now  a  shade  or  two  paler  than  usual,  be 
cause  its  owner  was  weary  with  the  months  and  years  of 
«are  which  had  fallen  on  her  youthful  shoulders. 

This  was  the  picture  Dora  saw,  and  nodding  to  the 
tout  ensemble  a  little  approving  nod,  and  pushing  behind 
her  ears  the  heavy  braids  of  hair  to  see  if  the  style  were 
becoming,  as  somebody  once  had  told  her,  she  resumed 
her  pen  and  diary,  as  follows  : 

"  Where  was  I  when  vanity  stopped  me  for  an  in 
spection  of  myself?  Oh,  I  kncwj  I  had  been  writing 


DORAS  DIARY.  9 

things  about  being  married,  for  •which  I  ought  to  blush, 
and  through  "which  I  put  nay  pen,  so —  But  there's 
what  I  said  of  Margaret ;  I'll  let  that  stand,  for  she  is 
peevish  and  cross,  and  it's  a  relief  to  tell  it  somewhere 
Poor  Margaret !  I  cannot  help  pitying  her  when  I  look 
at  her  now,  and  remember  what  she  used  to  be  at  the 
dear  old  home, — so  beautiful,  so  petted,  and  admired. 
Ah  me !  that  was  twelve  years  ago,  and  I  was  a  little 
girl  when  Margaret  was  married,  and  we  danced  on  the 
lawn  in  the  soft  September  sunlight,  with  papa  looking 
on,  so  happy  and  so  proud ;  and  then  the  bonfires  they 
kindled  and  the  bells  they  rang  at  nightfall  in  honor  of 
the  bride,  Mrs.  John  Russell,  Esquire.  Alas !  when 
next  on  a  week  day  that  bell  was  rung,  it  tolled  for  my 
dear  lost  father,  who  died  with  apoplexy,  and  left  his 
afiairs  all  in  confusion,  his  property,  which  was  reputed 
so  great,  all  mortgaged,  and  I  a  little  beggar.  Shall  T 
ever  forget  John  Russell's  kindness  when,  hurrying  home 
from  Europe,  he  came  to  me  at  once  and  said  I  should 
be  his  daughter,  and  should  live  with  him  and  Margaret 
at  Beech  wood,  where  we  came  eleven  years  ago  this  very 
June, — Margaret  a  splendid-looking  woman,  who  would 
not  wear  black  because  her  bridal  dresses  were  so  much 
more  becoming ;  and  I  a  timid,  awkward  girl  of  fourteen, 
who  cried  so  much  for  the  dear  father  gone,  and  the  old 
homestead  sold,  that  people  said  I  looked  and  acted 
older  than  my  sister,  the  stylish  Mrs.  Russell.  Ho* 


10  DORAS  DIART. 

glad  I  was  when  in  the  autumn  Johnnie  was  born  and 
Margaret  left  him  so  much  with  me,  for  in  my  love  for 
him  I  forgot  to  mourn  for  father,  and  came  to  think  of 
Lira  as  safe  in  heaven,  where  mother  went  when  I  was 
ten  days  old.  Then  those  three  delightful  years  at 
echool,  when  I  roomed  with  sweet  Mattie  Reed,  whom  I 
am  going  to-morrow  to  visit.  No  matter  if  there  were 
three  babies  here  instead  of  one  when  I  came  home ;  and 
it  was  very  wicked  in  me  to  feel  annoyed,  because  I  was 
BO  often  expected  to  see  that  nurse  did  her  duty,  or  in 
fact  turn  nurse  myself  to  the  wee  little  things.  I  cannot 
say  that  I  was  glad  when  Benny  came,  for  with  the  ad 
vent  of  each  child,  Margaret  grew  more  delicate,  more 
helpless,  and  more, — I  wonder  if  it  is  bad  to  say  it, — 
more  fault- finding  with  her  husband,  who,  though  the 
very  best  man  in  the  world,  is  not  like, — like, — well,  say 
like  Dr.  West." 

Here  the  pen  made  three  heavy  strokes  through  that 
name,  completely  erasing  it,  after  which  it  continued  : 

"  I  cannot  tell  why  I  should  bring  him  up  as  a  com 
parison,  when  I  do  not  like  him  at  all,  even  if  the  whole 
village  of  Beechwood  is  running  mad  about  him, — I 
mean  the  old  people,  not  the  young,  who  sneer  at  him 
and  call  him  stingy.  If  there's  anything  I  hate,  it's 
penuriousness,  which  holds  so  fast  to  a  three-cent  piece 
and  hugs  a  battered  sixpence.  Don't  I  remember  out 
fair  last  winter  for  the  benefit  of  the  church,  and  how 


DORA'S  DIAR7.  \\ 

the  girls,  without  the  slightest  reason  for  doing  so,  said 
to  me,  *  Now,  when  Dr.  West  conies  in,  you  take  pos 
session  of  him.  You  are  just  the  one.  He  thinks  more 
of  you  than  of  all  of  us  together.  You  can  sell  him  that 
dressing-gown  and  slippers.  Ask  fifteen  at  first,  and  if 
he  demurs,  fall  to  ten.  They  were  both  given,  so  w« 
shall  not  lose.  Tell  him,  if  necessary,  how  shabby  his 
present  gown  and  slippers  are  looking,  and  how  the 
ladies  talk  about  it.' 

"I  did  not  believe  he  would  come  directly  to  my 
table,  and,  I  think  now,  the  crowd  must  have  pushed 
him  there,  for  come  he  did,  looking  so  pleasant  and  kind, 
and  speaking  so  gently  when  he  said  he  hoped  we  should 
realize  a  large  sum,  and  wished  so  much  he  could  help  us 
more.  Of  course,  the  gown  and  slippers  were  thrust 
upon  his  notice,  so  cheap,  only  fifteen  dollars;  and,  of 
course,  he  declined,  saying,  sotto  voce  : 

"  '  I  would  gladly  buy  them  for  your  sake,  if  I  could, 
but  I  cannot  afford  it.' 

"  Then  I  fell  to  twelve,  then  to  ten,  and  finally  to 
eight,  but  he  l.eld  out  firmly, .notwithstanding  that  I  told 
him  how  forlorn  he  looked  in  his  old  ones,  patched  and 
tattered  as  they  were.  I  could  see  a  flush  on  his  face, 
but  he  only  laughed,  and  said  he  must  get  a  wife  to  mend 
his  things.  It  was  surely  my  evil  genius  which  prompted 
cue  to  retort  in  a  pert,  contemptuous  tone  : 

" '  Umph  !  few  ladies  are  insane  enough  to  marry  stingy 


18  DORAS   DIARY. 

old    bachelors,    who    would    quarrel    about    the     pii» 
money ! ' 

"  I  shall  never  forget  how  white  he  grew,  or  how 
quickly  his  hand  went  into  his  pocket,  as  if  in  quest  ol 
liis  purse ;  but  it  was  withdrawn  without  it,  just  as  that 
detestable  Dr.  Colby  came  simpering  along,  smelling  of 
cologne,  and  musk,  and  brandy.  I  knew,  to  a  certainty, 
that  he  did  not  pay  his  board  bills,  and  yet  I  felt  goaded 
into  asking  him  to  become  an  example  of  generosity  to 
Dr.  West,  and  buy  the  gown  and  slippers.  I'd  take  it 
as  a  personal  favor,  I  said,  putting  into  my  hateful  eyes 
»is  much  flattery  as  I  possibly  could;  and  he  bought 
them,  paying  fifteen  dollars  right  before  Dr.  West,  who 
said  softly,  sadly  like : 

" '  I'm  glad  you  have  found  a  purchaser.  I  did  not 
wish  you  to  be  disappointed ; '  and  then  he  walked 
away,  while  that  Colby  paraded  his  dressing-gown  and 
slippers  until  I  hated  the  sight  of  them,  and  could  have 
cried  with  vexation. 

"  Still,  when  later  in  the  evening  Dr.  West  came  bacfc 
and  asked  me  to  go  with  him  for  ice-cream,  I  answered 
saucily  : 

"  '  Thank  you  ;  I  can't  leave ;  and  besides,  I  would  not 
for  the  world  put  you  to  so  much  expense ! ' 

"  If  he  was  white  before,  he  was  livid  now,  and  he  hai 
never  appeared  natural  since.  I  wish  he  knew  how 
cuuiy  times  I  have  cried  over  that  affair,  and  how  I  de 


DORAS   DIARY.  13 

test  that  pert  young  Colby,  who  never  has  a  patient,  and 
who  called  and  called  at  Beechwood  until  Mrs.  Mark 
ham,  across  the  way,  sent  in  to  ask  who  was  so  very  sick, 
After  that  I  took  good  care  to  be  engaged  whenever  I 
heard  his  ring.  Dr.  West, — I  wonder  why  I  will  per 
sist  in  writing  his  name  when  I  really  do  not  care  fox 
him  in  the  least ;  that  is,  care  as  girls  sometimes  care 
for  fine-looking  men,  with  good  education,  good  moralsj 
good  manners,  and  a  good  profession.  If  I  could  rid 
myself  of  the  idea  that  he  was  stingy,  I  might  tolerate 
him ;  but  of  course  he's  stingy,  or  why  does  he  wear  so 
shabby  a  coat  and  hat,  and  why  does  he  never  mingle  in 
any  of  the  rides  and  picnics  where  money  is  a  necessary  ia  • 
gredient  ?  Here  he's  been  in  Beechwood  three,  yes,  most 
four  years,  getting  two-thirds  of  the  practice,  eveu  if  he 
is  a  homoaopathist.  I've  heard  that  he  gives  liberally  to 
the  church,  and  he  attends  the  extreme  poor  for  nothing. 
So  there  is  some  good  in  him.  I  wonder  if  he'll  come 
to  say  good-by.  I  presume  not,  or  he  would  have  re 
served  that  package  sent  by  Johnnie,  and  brought  i* 
himself  instead.  It  is  marked  *  Mrs.  David  West,  Mor- 
risville.'  Who  in  the  world  can  Mrs.  David  West  be  ? 
I  did  not  know  he  ever  saw  Morris ville,  and  I  am  sure 
he  came  from  Boston.  There's  the  bell  for  midnight.  I 
have  written  the  whole  hour,  and  all  of  Doctor  West, 
except  the  ill-natured  things  I  said  of  Margaret,  and  for 
which  I  am  sorry.  Poor  Madge,  as  Brother  John  calli 


14  DOHA'S  DIAUY. 

her,  she's  sick  and  tired,  and  cannot  help  beii.g  a  lifctl* 
fretful,  while  I,  who  never  had  an  ache  or  pain,  can  help 
blaming  her,  and  I  will.  I'm  sorry,  Sister  Maggie,  foJ 
what  I  have  written  about  you,  and  humbly  ask  you 
pardon." 


CHAPTER  n. 

AUTHOR'S  JOURNAL. 

|T  lacked  ten  minutes  of  car-time,  and  tie  omni 
bus-driver  was  growing  impatient  and  tired  of 
waiting  for  his  passenger,  when  a  noisy  group 
appeared  upon  the  piazza :  Mrs.  Squire  Russell,  pale, 
languid,  drooping  as  usual,  with  a  profusion  of  long 
light  curls  falling  in  her  eyes,  and  giving  to  her  faded 
face  the  appearance  of  a  poodle  dog ;  Mr.  Squire  Rus 
sell,  short,  fat,  hen-pecked,  but  very  good-looking  withal, 
and  some  half  dozen  little  Russells,  clinging  to  and  jump 
ing  upon  the  young  lady,  whom  we  recognize  at  once  aa 
Dora,  our  heroine. 

"  You  won't  stay  long,  even  if  Mrs.  Randall  does 
urge  you,"  said  Mrs.  Russell,  in  a  half-complaining  tone  ay 
she  drew  together  her  white  wrapper,  and  leaned  wearily 
against  a  pillar  of  the  piazza.  "  You  know  I  can't  do 
anything  with  the  children,  and  the  hot  weather  makes 
me  so  miserable.  I  shall  expect  you  in  two  weeks." 

"  Two  weeks,  Madge  !  are  you  crazy  ? "  said  the 
Squire's  good-humored  voice.  "  Dora  has  not  been  from 
home  in  ages,  while  you  have  almost  made  the  tour  of 
the  Western  Continent.  She  shall  stay  as  long  as  she 


1(J  AUTHORS  JOURNAL. 

likes,  and  get  some  color  in  her  face.  She  used  to.ba 
rosier  than  she  is  now,  and  it  all  comes  of  her  being  shut 
up  so  close  with  the  children." 

"I  think  it  is  very  unkind  in  you,  Mr.  Russell,  to 
Bpeak  as  if  I  was  the  worst  sister  in  the  world,  and  the 
most  exacting.  I  am  sure  Dora  don't  think  so.  Didn't 
she  go  with  us  to  Newport  last  summer,  and  wasn't  she 
more  than  once  called  the  belle  of  the  Ocean  House  ?  " 

John  gave  a  queer  kind  of  whistle,  while  Dora  in 
voluntarily  drew  a  long  breath  as  she  remembered  tha 
dreary  time  she  had  passed  at  the  Ocean  House,  looking 
after  three  nurses,  six  children,  and  her  sister  Margaret, 
whose  rooms  were  on  the  third  floor,  and  to  whom  she 
had  acted  the  part  of  waiting-maid  in  general.  But  hor 
thoughts  were  suddenly  brought  back  from  Newport  by 
Margaret's  next  remark : 

"  You  needn't  charge  the  loss  of  her  roses  to  me 
either,  John.  No  one  can  expect  to  be  yonng-looking 
forever,  and  you  must  remember  Dora  haa  passed  the> 
bloom  of  youth.  She's  in  her  twenty-sixth  year." 

"  Twenty-sixth  year !  Thunder  !  that's  nothing,"  and 
Squire  Russell  tossed  up  in  the  air  the  little  Daisy  crawl 
ing  at  his  feet,  while  Johnnie,  the  ten-year  old  boy, 
roared  out : 

"  Aunt  Dora  ain't  old.  She's  real  young  and  pretty, 
and  so  Dr.  "West  told  Miss  Markham  that  time  she 
•minted  on  her  fingers,  and  said,  so  epitef  il  like  : 


AUTHORS  JOURNAL.  17 

Miss  Freeman  is  full  thirty.  Why,  they've  been  here 
eleven  years,  and  she  must  have  been  nineteen  or  twenty 
when  she  came,  for  she  was  quite  as  big  as  she  is  now, 
•nd  looked  as  old.  Yes,  she's  too  old  for  the  new  min 
ister,  Mr.  Kelley.*  I  was  so  mad  I  could  have  knocked 
her,  and  I  did  throw  a  brick  at  her  parrot  squawking  in 
the  yard.  Dr.  West  was  as  red  as  fire,  and  said  to  he! 
just  as  he  spoke  to  me  once,  when  he  made  me  hold  still 
to  be  vaccinated,  '  Miss  Freeman  is  not  thirty.  She 
does  not  look  twenty,  and  is  perfectly  suitable  for  Mr. 
Kelley,  if  she  wants  him.' 

"  '  She  don't,'  says  I,  '  for  she  don't  see  him  half  the 
time  when  he  calls,  nor  Dr.  Colby  either.' 

"  I  was  going  to  spit  out  a  lot  more  stuff,  when  Dr. 
West  put  his  hand  to  my  mouth,  and  told  me  to  hush 
up." 

There  were  roses  now  on  Dora's  cheeks,  and  they  made 
her  positively  beautiful  as  she  kissed  her  sister  and  the 
little  ones  good-by,  glancing  nervously  across  the  broad, 
quiet  street  to  where  a  small,  white  office  was  nestled 
among  the  trees.  But  though  the  blinds  were  down,  the 
door  was  not  opened,  while  around  the  house  in  the 
same  yard  there  were  no  signs  of  life  except  at  an  upper 
window,  where  a  head,  which  was  unmistakably  that  of 
Dr.  West's  landlady,  Mrs.  Markham,  was  discernible  be 
hind  the  muslin  curtain.  He  was  not  coming  to  say 
good-by,  and  with  a  feeling  of  disappointment  Dor* 


18  AUTHORS  JOURNAL. 

walked  rapidly  to  the  omnibus,  which  boro  her  away  from 
the  house  where  they  missed  her  so  much,  Squire  John 
looking  uncomfortable  and  desolate,  the  children  grow 
ing  very  cross,  and  at  last  crying,  every  one  of  them,  foi 
auntie ;  while  Margaret  took  refuge  from  the  turmoil  be 
hind  one  of  her  nervous  headaches,  and  went  to  her  room, 
wondering  why  Dora  must  select  that  time  of  all  other* 
to  leave  bar. 


CHAPTER  IIL 

DR.  WEST'S  DIARY. 

"  June  iSih,  10  P.  M. 

JOW  beautiful  it  is  this  summer  night,  and  he  v» 
softly  the  moonlight  falls  upon  the  quiet  street 
through  the  maple-trees!  On  such  a  night  aa 
this  one  seems  to  catch  a  faint  glimpse  of  what  Eden 
must  have  been  ere  the  trail  of  the  serpent  was  there.  \ 
have  often  wished  it  had  been  Adam  who  first  trami- 
gressed  instead  of  Eve.  I  would  rather  it  had  been  a 
man  than  a  woman  who  brought  so  much  sorrow  upo* 
our  race.  And  yet,  when  I  remember  that  by  woniaa 
came  the  Saviour,  I  feel  that  to  her  was  given  the  highet « 
honor  ever  bestowed  on  mortal.  I  have  had  so  muc^ 
faith  in  woman,  enshrining  her  in  my  heart  as  all  tha1* 
was  good  and  pure  and  lovely.  And  have  I  been  mis 
taken  in  her  ?  Once,  yes.  But  that  is  past.  Anna  ii 
dead.  I  forgave  her  freely  at  the  last,  and  mourned  for 
her  as  for  a  sister.  How  long  it  took  to  crush  out  my 
love,  — to  overcome  the  terrible  pain  which  would  waken 
me  from  the  dream  that  I  held  her  again  in  my  arms, 
that  her  soft  cheek  was  against  my  own,  her  long,  goldeg 


20  DR.  WEST'S  DIART. 

curls  falling  on  my  bosom  just  as  they  once  fell  1  do 
not  like  curls  now,  and  I  verily  believe  poor  Mrs.  Rus 
sell,  with  all  her  whims  and  vanity,  would  be  tolerably 
agreeable  to  me  were  it  not  for  that  forest  of  hair  dang, 
ling  about  her  face.  Her  sister  wears  hers  in  bands  and 
braids,  and  I  am  glad,  though  what  does  it  matter  ?  She 
is  no  more  to  me  than  a  friend,  and  possibly  not  that. 
Sometimes  I  fancy  she  avoids  and  even  dislikes  me.  I've 
fuspected  it  ever  since  that  fatal  fair  when  she  urged  me 
w>  buy  what  I  could  not  afford  just  then.  She  thought 
vae  avaricious,  no  doubt,  a  reputation  I  fear  I  sustain,  at 
least  among  the  fast  young  men ;  but  my  heavenly  Fa 
ther  knows,  and  some  time  maybe  Dora  will.  I  like  to 
wall  her  Dora  here  alone.  The  name  is  suited  to  her, 
brown-eyed,  brown-haired  Dora.  If  she  were  one  whit 
more  like  Anna,  I  never  could  have  liked  her  as  I  do, — 
brown-eyed,  brown-haired  Dora. 

"  And  she  has  gone  to  Morrisville,  where  Anna,  lived. 
Is  this  Mrs.  Randall  very  grand,  I  wonder,  and  will 
Dora  hear  of  Anna  ?  Of  course  she  will.  I  knew  that 
when  I  asked  her  to  be  the  bearer  of  that  package 
which  I  might  have  sent  by  express.  Perhaps  she  will 
take  it  herself,  seeing  little  Robin  and  so  hearing  oi 
Anna.  O  Dora,  you  would  pity  me  if  you  knew  how 
much  I  have  suffered.  Only  God  could  give  the  strength 
to  endure,  and  He  has  done  so  until  I  carry  my  burden 
uncomplainingly. 


PR.  WEST'S  DIARY.  21 

"  Will  she  see  Lieutenant  Reed,  Mrs.  Randall's  broth 
er  ?  "What  a  blow  that  story  gave  me,  and  yet  I  doubted 
its  truth,  though  the  possibility  nearly  drives  me  wild,  and 
aLows  me  the  real  nature  of  my  feelings  for  Dora  Free 
man.  Let  me  record  the  event  as  it  occurred.  This 
morning  Dora  went  away  to  Morrisville,  my  old  home, 
though  she  does  not  know  that,  because,  for  certain  rea 
sons,  I  have  not  chosen  to  talk  much  of  my  affairs  in 
Beech  wood.  She  went  early,  before  many  people  were 
astir,  but  I  saw  her,  and  heard,  as  I  believe,  the  roar  of 
the  train  until  it  was  miles  away,  and  then  I  awoke  to 
the  knowledge  that  the  world  had  changed  with  her 
going,  that  now  there  was  nothing  before  me  but  the 
same  monotonous  round  of  professional  calls,  the  tire 
some  chatter  of  my  landlady,  Mrs.  Minerva  Markham, 
and  the  tedious  sitting  here  alone. 

"  Heretofore  there  has  been  a  pleasant  excitement  in 
watching  the  house  across  the  street  for  a  glimpse  of 
Dora,  in  waiting  for  her  to  come  out  upon  the  lawn 
where  she  frolicked  and  played  with  all  those  little  Rus- 
sells,  in  seeing  her  sometimes  steal  away  as  if  to  be  alone, 
and  in  pitying  her  because  I  knew  the  half  dozen  were  on 
her  track  and  would  soon  discover  her  hiding-place,  in 
wishing  that  I  could  spirit  her  away  from  the  cares  which 
should  fall  upon  another,  in  seeing  her  after  the  gas  \vai 
lighted  going  in  to  dinner  in  her  white  muslin  dress  witb 
the  scarlet  geraniums  in  her  hair,  in  watching  her  window 


22  DR.  WEST'S  DIART. 

until  the  shadow  flitting  before  it  disappeared  with  the 
light,  and  I  was  left  to  wonder  if  the  little  maiden  were 
kneeling  in  adoration  to  Him  who  gave  her  life  and  be 
ing.  All  this,  or  something  like  it,  has  formed  a  part  of 
my  existence,  but  with  Dora's  going  everything  changed. 
Clouds  came  over  the  sun ;  the  breeze  from  the  lake 
blew  cold  and  chilly ;  Mrs.  Markham's  talk  was  more  in 
sipid  than  ever,  while  the  addition  to  my  patrons  of  two 
of  the  wealthiest  families  in  town  failed  to  give  me  pleas- 
nre.  Dora  was  gone,  and  in  a  listless  mood  I  made  my 
round  of  visits,  riding  over  the  Berkley  hills  and  across 
the  Cheshire  flats,  wondering  if  I  did  well  to  send  that 
package  by  Dora,  knowing  as  I  did  that  it  must  lead  to 
her  hearing  of  Anna. 

"  It  was  sunset  when  I  came  home,  a  warm,  purple  sun 
set,  such  as  always  reminds  me  of  Dora  in  her  mature 
beauty.  There  was  a  stillness  in  the  air,  and  from  tho 
trees  which  skirt  the  hillside  leading  to  the  to\vn  the 
katydids  were  biping  their  clamorous  notes.  I  used  to 
like  to  hear  them  when  a  boy,  and  many's  the  time  I've 
stood  with  Anna  listening  to  them  by  the  west  door  at 
home  ;  but  now  there  was  a  sadness  ia  their  tones  as  il 
they  were  saying,  '  Dora's  gone ;  Dora's  gone,'  while  the 
opposite  party  responded,  '  And  Anna  too ;  and  Anna 
koo.' 

f{  I  had  not  wept  for  Anna  since  the  hour  when  I  first 
«new  she  was  lost  forever,  but  to-night  in  the  gathering 


DR.  WEST'S  D1AR7.  23 

twilight,  with  the  music  of  my  boyhood  sounding  in  my 
ears,  the  long  ago  came  back  to  me  again,  bringing  with 
it  the  beautiful  blue-eyed  girl  over  whose  death  ther« 
hangs  so  dark  a  mystery,  and  there  was  a  moisture  in  mj 
eyes,  and  a  tear  which  dropped  on  Major's  mane,  and 
was  shed  for  Anna  dead  as  well  as  for  Dora  gone.  When 
I  readied  the  office,  I  found  upon  the  slate  a  hand-writ 
ing  which  I  knew  to  be  Johnnie  Russell's,  and  for  a  mo 
ment  I  felt  tempted  to  kiss  it,  because  he  is  Dora's 
nephew.  This  is  what  he  had  written  : 

"  '  Mother's  toock  ravin'  with  one  of  her  headaches, 
cause  auntie's  gone,  and  there's  nobody  to  tend  to  the 
yaung  ones.  Gawly,  how  they've  cut  up,  and  she  wants 
you  to  come  with  some  jim-cracks  in  a  phial.  Yours, 
with  regret,  JOHN  RUSSELL,  JR.* 

"  I  like  that  boy,  so  outspoken  and  truthful,  but  Dora 
will  be  shocked  at  his  language.  And  so  my  services 
were  needed  at  the  big  house  over  the  way.  Usually  1 
like  to  go  there,  but  now  Dora  is  gone  it  is  quite 
another  thing,  for  with  all  my  daily  discipline  of  myself, 
I  dislike  Mrs.  Russell.  I  have  struggled  against  it, 
prayed  against  it,  but  as  often  as  I  see  her  face  and  hear 
Uor  voice,  tho  old  tjislike  comes  back.  There's  nothing 
real  about  her  except  her  selfishness  and  vanity.  Were 
•h©  raving  with  fever,  I  verily  believe  her  hair  would  b« 


£4  DR.  WEST'S  DIARY. 

just  as  elaborately  curled,  her  handsome  wrapper  as  care* 
fully  Arranged,  and  her  heavy  bracelets  clasped  as  conspic 
uously  around  the  wrists  as  if  in  full  dress  for  an  even 
ing  party.  To-night  I  found  her  in  just  this  costume, 
with  a  blue  scarf  thrown  round  her,  as  she  reclined  upon 
th&  pillow-  I  knew  she  was  suffering,  from  the  dark 
rings  beneath  her  eyes,  and  this  roused  my  sympathy. 
Sne  seems  to  like  me  as  a  physician,  and  asked  me  to 
stop  after  I  had  prescribed  for  her.  Naturally  enough 
she  spoke  of  Dora,  whom  she  missed  so  much,  she  said, 
and  then  with  a  little  sigh  continued : 

"  *  It  is  not  often  that  I  talk  familiarly  with  any  but 
my  most  intimate  friends,  but  you  have  been  in  our 
family  so  much,  and  know  how  necessary  Dora  is  to  us, 
that  you  will  partially  understand  what  a  loss  it  would 
be  to  lose  my  sister  entirely.7 

"  '  Yes,  a  terrible  loss,'  I  said,  thinking  more  of  myself 
than  of  her.  '  But  is  there  a  prospect  of  losing  her  ?  ' 
I  asked,  feeling  through  my  frame  a  cold,  sickly  chill, 
which  rapidly  increased  as  she  replied  : 

"  '  Perhaps  not ;  but  this  Mrs.  Randall,  whom  she  has 
gone  to  visit,  has  a  brother  at  West  Point,  you  know, 
Lieutenant  E,eed,  the  young  man  with  epaulets,  who  was 
here  last  summer.' 

" c  Yes,  I  remember  him,'  I  said,  and  Mrs.  Russell 
continued : 

**  <  He  has  been  in  love  with  Dora  e  rer  since  ah*  WSM 


DR.  WESTS  DIART.  25 

with  his  sister  Mattie  at  school.  Dora  has  not  yet  given 
him  a  decided  answer,  but  1  know  her  preference  for 
him,  and  as  he  is  to  be  at  his  sister's  while  Dora  is 
there,  it  is  natural  to  fear  that  it  may  result  in  event 
ually  taking  Dora  away  from  Beech  wood.' 

"  '  It  may,  it  may,'  I  responded,  in  a  kind  of  absent 
way,  for  my  brain  was  in  a  whirl,  and  I  scarcely  knew 
what  I  did. 

"  She  must  have  observed  my  manner,  for  her  eyes 
suddenly  brightened  as  if  an  entirely  new  idea  had  been 
suggested  to  her. 

"  *  Now  if  it  were  some  one  near  by,'  she  continued, '  per 
haps  she  would  not  leave  me.  The  house  is  large  enough 
for  all,  and  Dora  will  marry  some  time,  of  course.  She  is 
•  kind  sister,  and  will  make  a  good  wife.' 

<{  At  this  point  Squire  Russell  came  in,  and  soon  after 
I  said  good-by,  going  out  again  into  the  summer  night, 
beneath  the  great,  full  moon,  whose  soft,  pure  light  could 
not  still  the  throbbing  of  my  heart ;  neither  could  the 
long  walk  I  took  down  by  the  lake,  where  Dora  and  I 
went  one  day  last  summer.  There  were  quite  a  number 
of  the  villagers  with  us,  for  it  was  a  picnic,  but  I  saw 
only  Dora,  who,  afraid  of  the  water,  stayed  on  the  shore 
with  me,  while  the  rest  went  off  in  sail-boats.  We  talked 
together  very  quietly,  sitting  on  the  bank,  beneath  a 
broad  grape-vine,  of  whose  leaves  she  wove  a  sort  of 
wreath,  as  she  told  me  of  her  dear  old  home,  and  how  the 


26  -B&  WEST'S  DIA&r. 

saddest  moments  she  had  ever  known  -were  those  iu 
which  she  fully  realized  that  she  was  never  again  to  live 
there,  that  stranger  hands  would  henceforth  tend  the 
flowers  she  had  tended,  and  stranger  feet  tread  the  walk* 
and  alleys  and  winding  paths  with  which  the  grounds 
abounded.  I  remember  how  the  wish  flashed  upon  me 
lhat  I  might  some  day  buy  back  the  home,  and  take  her 
ihere  as  its  mistress.  Of  all  this  I  thought  to-night,  sit 
ting  on  the  lone  shore,  just  where  she  once  sat,  and  lis 
tening  to  the  low  dash  of  the  waves,  which,  as  they  came 
rolling  almost  to  my  feet,  seemed  to  murmur,  'Never, 
never  more  ! ' 

"  I  do  not  believe  I  am  love-sick,  but  I  am  very  sad  t</- 
night,  and  the  walk  down  to  the  lake  did  not  dispel  the 
sadness.  It  may  be  it  is  wrong  in  me  thus  to  despond, 
when  in  many  ways  I  have  been  prospered  beyond  my 
most  sanguine  hopes.  That  heavy  debt  is  paid  at  last, 
thanks  to  the  kind  Father  who  raised  ir«  up  so  many 
friends,  and  whose  healing  hand  has  mora  than  once  been 
outstretched  to  save  when  medicine  was  no  longer  of 
avail.  As  is  natural,  the  cure  was  charged  to  me,  when 
I  knew  it  was  God  who  had  wrought  the  almost  miracu 
lous  change.  And  shall  I  murmur  at  anything  when  sure 
of  Hi  a  love  and  protection  ?  Be  still,  my  heart.  If  it  be 
God's  will,  Dora  shall  yet  rest  in  these  arms,  which  fain 
would  shelter  her  from  all  the  ills  of  life ;  and  if  'tis  not  Hi* 
will,  what  am  /,  that  I  should  question  His  dealings  ?  " 


CHAPTER  IT. 

JOBNNIE'S  LETTEB  TO  DORA. 

"  BEECHWOOD,  Jane  13th.  j 

In  the  afternoon,  up  in  the  wood-house  chaim-  > 
ber  where  I've  crawled  to  hide  from  the  young  ones.  J 

,  DEAR,  DARLING  AUNTIE  : 

"  It  seems  to  me  you've  been  gone  a  hundred 
million  billion  years,  and  you've  no  idea  what  a 
forlorn  old  rat-trap  of  a  plais  it  is  Without  You,  nor  ho~w 
the  Young  Ones  do  rase  Kain.  They  keep  up  the  Darn- 
dest  row — Auntie.  I  didn't  mean  to  use  that  word,  and 
I'll  scratch  it  right  out,  but  when  you  are  away,  I'll  be 
dar — There  I  was  going  to  say  it  agen.  I'm  a  perfectly 
Dredful  Boy,  ain't  I  ?  But  I  do  love  you,  Auntie,  and 
last  night, — now  don't  you  tell  pa,  nor  Tish,  nor  Nobody, 
— last  night  after  I  went  to  bed,  I  cried  and  cried  and 
crammed  the  sheet  in  my  mouth  to  keep  Jim  from  hear 
ing  me  till  I  most  vomited. 

"Ben  and  Burt  behave  awful.  Clem  heard  their 
Prayers  and  right  in  the  midst  of  Our  father,  Burt 
jrtopped  and  asked  if  Mr.  John  Smith,  the  Storekeeper, 
was  related  to  John  the  baptis.  Clem  laughed  and  then 


28  JOHNNIE'S  LETTER  TO  DORA. 

Ben  struck  her  with  his  fist  and  Burt,  who  is  a  little  red 
pepper  any  How  pitched  in  And  kicked  Burt.  The  fusa 
waked  up  Daisy  who  fell  out  of  bed  and  screamed  like 
Murder,  then  Tish,  great  Tattle  Tail,  must  go  for  Father 
who  came  up  with  a  big  Gadd  and  declared  he'd  have 
order  in  His  own  house.  You  know  the  Young  Onei 
aint  a  bit  afraid  of  Him  and  Ben  and  Burt  kept  on  their 
fightin  tell  Clem  said  '  I  shall  tell  Miss  Dora  how  you 
act.*  That  stopped  'em  and  the  last  I  heard  Burt  was 
coaxing  Clem : 

lt '  Don't  tell  Auntie.  I'se  good  now,  real  good.' 
"  Maybee  it's  mean  in  me  to  tell  you  but  I  want  you  to 
tcaow  just  how  They  carry  on,  hoping  you'll  pick  up 
your  traps  and  come  home.  No  I  don't  neither  for  1 
want  you  to  stay  and  have  a  good  time  which  I'm  sure 
you  don't  have  here.  I  wish  most  you  was  my  Mother 
though  I  guess  girls  of  25  don't  often  have  great  strap- 
pin  Boys  like  me,  do  they  ?  I  asked  Dr.  West  and  he 
looked  so  queer  when  he  said,  'It  is  possible  but  not 
common.'  Why  not,  I  wonder?  Now,  Auntie,  I  don't 
want  mother  to  die,  because  she's  Mother,  but  if  she 
should,  yorfll  have  father,  won't  you?  That's  a  nice 
Auntie,  and  that  makes  me  think.  Last  night  mother 
had  the  headache  and  Dr.  West  was  here.  It  was  after 
the  Rumpus  in  the  nursery  and  I  was  sitting  at  the  head 
of  the  stairs  wishing  you  was  come  home  when  I  heard 
'em  talking  about  you  and  what  do  you  think  mothei 


JOHNNIE'S  LETTER  TO  DORA.  23 

fcold  Doctor  ?  A  lot  of  stuff  about  you  and  that  nasty 
Reed  who  was  here  last  summer.  She  talked  as  if  yon 
liked  him, — said  he  would  be  at  Mrs.  Randall's  and  sh« 
rather  expected  it  would  be  settled  then.  Twos  so  mod, 
I  bumped  right  up  and  down  on  the  stairs  and  said  Darn, 
Darn,  as  fast  as  I  could.  Now,  Auntie,  I  didn't  mean 
to  lie,  but  I  have.  I've  told  a  whopper  and  you  can  bite 
mv  head  off  if  you  like.  Dr's  voice  sounded  just  as  if  he 
didn't  want  you  to  like  that  Reed  and  I  diddent  think  it 
right  to  let  it  go.  So  this  morning  I  went  over  to  the 
office  and  found  Dr.  West  looking  pale  as  if  he  diddent 
sleep  good. 

" '  Doctor,'  says  I,  *  do  I  look  like  a  chap  that  will 
lie?' 

" '  Why,  no,'  says  he,  '  I  never  thought  you  did.' 

" '  But  I  will,'  ses  T,  '  and  I  am  come  to  do  that  very 
thing,  come  to  tell  you  something  Aunt  Dora  made*me 
promise  never  to  tell.' 

" '  John,  you  mussent,  I  can't  hear  you,'  he  began,  but 
I  yelled  up,  '  you  shall ;  I  will  tell ;  it's  about  Dora 
and  that  Reed.  She  don't  like  him.'  Somehow  he 
stopped  hushin'  me  then  and  pretended  to  fix  his  books 
while  I  said  how  last  summer  I  overheard  this  Reed  ask 
you  to  be  his  wife,  and  you  told  him  no ;  you  did  not 
love  him  well  enough,  and  never  could,  and  how  you 
meant  it  too.  There  diddent  neither  of  you  know  I  wa* 
oat  in  the  balcony,  I  said,  until  he  was  gone,  and  1 


80  JOHNNIES  LETTER  TO  DOHA, 

tneazed  when  you  talked  to  me  and  made  me  promise 
never  to  tell  what  I'd  heard  to  father,  nor  mother,  nor 
nobody.  I  never  did  tell  them,  but  I've  told  the  doctor, 
and  I  ain't  sorry,  it  made  him  look  so  glad.  He  took 
me,  and  Tish,  and  Ben,  and  Burt,  all  out  riding  thia 
afternoon  and  talked  to  them  real  nice,  telling  them  they 
must  be  good  while  you  was  gone.  Tish  and  Jim  are 
pretty  good,  but  Ben  has  broken  the  spy-glass  and  the 
umberill,  and  Burt  has  set  down  on  the  kittens,  and  oh  I 
must  tell  you  ;  he  took  a  big  iron  spoon  which  he  called 
a  sovel  and  dug  up  every  single  gladiola  in  the  garden  ! 
Ain't  they  terrible  Boys  ? 

"  There,  they've  found  where  I  be,  and  I  hear  Burt  com 
ing  up  the  stairs  one  step  at  a  time,  so  I  must  stop,  for 
they'll  tip  over  the  ink,  or  something.  Dear  Auntie,  I 
do  love  you  ever  and  ever  so  much,  and  if  you  want  my 
Auntie  and  a  grown  up  woman  I'd  marry  you.  Do  boys 
ever  marry  their  aunts  ? 

"Your,  with  Due  Respect, 

"JOHN  RUSSELL. 


"  p.s.  Excuse  my  awful  spellin.     I  never  could 
you  know,  or  make  the  right  Capitols. 

"p.s.  No.  2.  Burt  has  just  tumbled  the  whole  length  of 
the  wood-house  stares,  and  landed  plump  in  the  pounding 
iarrel,  half  full  of  water  You  orto  hear  him  Yttt." 


CHAPTER  VY 

DORA'S  DIARY. 

"  MORRISVILLE,  Jane  Idth. 

"WAS  too  tired  last  night  to  open  my  trunk, 
and  so  have  a  double  duty  to  perform,  that 
of  recording  the  events  of  the  last  two  days. 
Can  it  be  that  it  is  not  yet  forty-eight  hours  since  I  left 
Beechwood  and  all  its  cares,  which,  now  that  I  am  away 
from  them,  do  seem  burdensome?  What  a  delicious 
feeling  there  is  in  being  referred  to  and  waited  upon  as*  ii 
you  were  of  consequence,  and  how  I  enjoy  knowing  that 
for  a  time  at  least  I  can  rest ;  and  I  begin  to  think  I  need 
it,  for  how  else  can  I  account  for  the  languid,  weary  sen 
sation  which  prompts  me  to  sit  so  still  in  the  great,  soft, 
motherly  chair  which  Mattie  has  assigned  me,  and  which 
stands  right  in  the  cosey  bay-window,  where  I  can  look 
out  upon  the  beautiful  scenery  of  Morrisville  ? 

"  It  is  very  pleasant  here,  and  so  quiet  that  it  almost 
Beeias  as  if  the  town  had  gone  to  sleep  and  knew  nothing 
ol  Ae  great,  roaring,  whirling  world  without.  Not  even 
t  car- whistle  to  break  the  silence*  for  the  nearest  station 
where  T  stopped,  after  my  uneventful  ride,  is  eight  mile* 


82  DOHA1 8  DIARY. 

from  here.  There  was  Mattie  herself  waiting  for  me  oa 
the  platform,  her  face  as  sunny  as  ever,  and  her  greeting 
as  cordial.  Her  husband,  Mr.  Randall,  is  a  tall,  well' 
formed  man,  with  broad  shoulders,  which  look  a  littl« 
like  West  Point  discipline.  It  was  very  silly  in  one  to 
contrast  Him  at  once  with  Dr.  West,  but  I  did,  and  Dr. 
West  gained  by  the  comparison,  for  there  is  an  expres, 
eion  in  hi?  face  which  I  seldom  see  in  others,  certainly 
not  in  Mr.  Randall.  He  looks,  as  I  suspect  he  is,  proud, 
— and  yet  he  is  very  kind  to  me,  treating  me  with  as  much 
deference  as  if  I  were  the  Queen  of  England.  They  had 
aome  in  their  carriage,  and  the  drive  over  the  green  hilla 
and  through  the  pleasant  valleys  was  delightful.  I  could 
do  nothing  but  admire,  and  still  I  wondered  that  one  as 
fond  of  society  as  Mattie  should  have  settled  so  far  from 
the  stirring  world  as  Morrisville,  and  at  last  I  asked  why 
she  had  done  so. 

<{ '  It's  all  Will's  doings,'  she  answered,  laughingly. 
'  He  is  terribly  exclusive,  and  fancied  that  in  Morrisville 
he  should  find  ample  scope  for  indulging  his  taste, — that 
people  would  let  him  alone, — but  they  don't.  Why,  we 
have  only  lived  there  three  months,  and  I  am  sure  hall 
the  town  know  just  how  many  pieces  of  silver  I  Lave,— 
whether  my  dishes  are  stone  or  French  china, — what  hour 
we  breakfast, — when  we  go  to  bed, — when  we  get  up,  and 
how  many  dresses  I  have.  But  I  don't  care,  I  rather 
like  it ;  and  then,  too,  Morrisville  is  not  a  very  small 


DORA'B  DIAR7.  33 

town.  It  has  nearly  three  thousand  inhabitan  s,  and  • 
few  as  refined  and  cultivated  people  as  any  with  whom  1 
ever  met.' 

"  *  Who  are  they  ?  '  I  asked,  and  Mattie  began : 

" '  There's  the  Yerners,  and  Waldos,  and  Strikers,  and 
Rathbones  in  town,  while  in  the  country  there's  th« 
Kingslakes,  and  Croftons,  and  Bishops,  and  Warings, 
making  a  very  pleasant  circle.' 

"I  don't  know  why  I  felt  disappointed  that  she  did 
not  mention  Mrs.  David  West  as  among  the  tipper  ten, 
but  I  did,  and  should  have  ventured  to  speak  of  thai 
lady  if  I  had  not  been  a  little  afraid  of  Mr.  Randall, 
who  might  think  my  associates  too  plebeian  to  &ui* 
him. 

"  We  were  entering  the  town  now,  and  as  we  Jrovo 
through  what  Mattie  said  was  Grove  Street,  I  forgot  aU 
about  Mrs.  David  West  in  my  admiration  of  the  prettiest 
little  white  cottage  I  ever  saw.  I  cannot  describe  it  ex 
cept  that  it  seemed  all  porticoes,  bay-windows,  and  funnv 
little  places  shooting  out  just  where  you  did  not  expect 
them.  One  bay-window  opened  into  the  garden,  which 
was  full  of  flowers,  while  right  through  the  centre  ran 
a  gurgling  brook,  which  just  at  the  entrance  had  been 
coaxed  into  a  tiny  waterfall.  I  was  in  ecstasies,  particu 
larly  as  on  a  grass-plat,  under  a  great  elm-tree,  an  oldish- 
looking  lady  sat  knitting  and  talking  to  a  beautiful  child 

reclining  in  a  curious-looking  vehicle,,  half  wagon,  hall 
8* 


34  DORA'S  DIART. 

chair.  I  never  in  my  life  saw  anything  so  lovely  as  th« 
face  of  that  child,  seen  only  for  a  moment,  with  the  setting 
sunlight  falling  on  its  golden  curls  and  giving  it  the  look 
of  an  angel.  The  lady  interested  me  greatly  in  her  dresa 
of  black,  with  the  widow's  cap  resting  on  her  gray  hait 
while  her  face  was  familiar  as  if  I  had  seen  it  before. 

"  *  Who  are  they  ? '  I  asked  Mattie,  but  she  did  no* 
know. 

"  Neither  did  her  husband,  and  both  laughed  at  my 
evident  admiration. 

"  '  We  will  walk  by  here  some  day,  and  maybe  you  can 
make  their  acquaintance,'  Mattie  said,  as  she  saw  how  I 
leaned  back  for  a  last  glance  at  the  two  figures  beneath 
the  trees. 

"  *  There  is  West  Lawn  ! '  Mattie  cried  at  last,  in  her 
enthusiastic  way,  pointing  out  a  large  stone  building 
which  stood  a  little  apart  from  the  town. 

"I  knew  before  that  '  West  Lawn'  was  the  name  of 
Mr.  Randall's  home,  and  when  I  saw  it  I  comprehended 
at  once  why  it  was  so  called.  It  was  partly  because  of 
the  long  grassy  lawn  in  front,  and  partly  because  it  stood 
to  the  westward  of  the  village,  upon  a  slight  eminence 
which  overlooked  the  adjacent  country.  It  is  a  delight 
ful  place,  and  Mattie  says  they  have  made  many  im 
provements  since  they  bought  it.  But  it  must  have  been 
pleasant  before,  for  it  shows  marks  of  care  and  cultiva 
tion  given  to  it  years  ago.  Like  that  cottage  by  th« 


DORA' 8  DIAR7.  8ft 

brook,  it  has  bay-windows  and  additions,  while  E  think  I 
never  saw  so  many  roses  around  one  spot  in  my  life. 
There  is  a  perfect  wilderness  of  them,  in  every  shade  and 
variety.  These  reminded  me  of  Dr.  West,  who  is  so  fond 
of  roses,  and  who  said  once  that  he  would  have  his  home 
literally  covered  with  them.  *  West  Lawn'  would  suit 
him  at  this  season,  I  am  sure.  Here  in  Morrisville  I  find 
myself  thinking  a  great  deal  about  Dr.  West,  and  think 
ing  only  good  of  him.  I  forget  all  I  ever  fancied  about 
his  littleness,  and  remember  instead  how  kind  he  is  to 
the  Beech  wood  poor,  who  have  named  at  least  a  dozen 
children  after  him.  Mrs.  David  West !  I  do  not  see  aa 
I  shall  be  able  to  meet  her  ladyship,  as  she  evidently 
ioes  not  belong  to  the  Verner  and  Randall  clique. 

"  But  let  me  narrate  events  a  little  more  in  the  order  in 
which  they  occurred,  going  back  to  last  night,  when  we 
had  tea  in  what  Mattie  calls  the  '  Rose  Room,'  because 
the  portico  in  front  is  enveloped  with  roses.  Then  came  a 
long  talk,  when  Mr.  Randall  was  gone  for  his  evening 
paper,  and  when  Mattie,  nestling  up  to  me,  with,  her  head 
in  my  lap,  just  as  she  used  to  do  in  school,  told  me  what 
a  dear  fellow  her  husband  was,  and  how  much  she  loved 
him.  Then  some  music,  I  playing  my  poor  accompani 
ments  while  Mattie  sang  her  favorite  Scotch  ballads. 
Then,  at  an  early  hour  for  me,  I  went  to  bed,  for  Mattie 
does  not  like  sitting  up  till  midnight.  I  have  a  large, 
airy  chamber,  which  must  have  been  fitted  up  for  a  young 


SO  DORA'S  DIARY. 

lady,  there  are  so  many  closets,  and  shelves,  and  presses, 
with  a  darling  little  bath  and  dressing-room  opening  out 
of  it.  Mattie,  who  came  in  to  see  that  I  was  comiorfcac 
able,  told  me  this  was  the  only  room  in  which  the  paper 
had  not  been  changed. 

"  c  It's  old-fashioned,  as  you  see,'  she  said,  *  and  must 
have  been  on  before  the  time  of  Mr.  Wakely,  of  whom 
we  bought  the  house,  but  it  is  so  pretty  and  clean  that  T 
would  not  have  it  touched.' 

"  It  is  indeed  pretty,  its  ground  a  pure  white,  sprinkled 
here  and  there  with  small  bouquets  of  violets.  Just  back 
of  the  dressing-table  and  near  the  window  are  pencil- 
marks,  *  Robert,  Robert,  Robert,'  in  a  girlish  hand,  and 
then  a  name  which  might  have  been  'Annie,'  though 
neither  of  us  could  make  it  out  distinctly.  Evidently 
this  room  belonged  to  a  maiden  of  that  name,  and  while 
thinking  about  her  and  wondering  who  she  was,  I  fell 
Asleep.  I  do  not  believe  in  haunted  houses,  nor  witches, 
nor  ghosts,  nor  goblins,  but  last  night  I  had  the  queerest 
dreams,  in  which  that  woman  and  child  beneath  the  trees 
were  strangely  mingled  with  Dr.  West  and  a  young  lady 
who  came  to  me  with  such  a  pale,  sad  face,  that  I  woke 
in  a  kind  of  nightmare,  my  first  impression  being  that  I 
was  occupying  some  other  room  than  mine. 

"  This  morning  Mattie  was  present  while  I  unpacked  my 
trunk,  and  coming  upon  that  package,  I  said,  as  uncon- 
eernedly  as  possible,  *  Oh,  by  the  way,  do  you  know  such 


DORAS  DIARY.  37 

•  person  as  Mrs.  David  West  ?    I  have  a  package  for  her, 
entrusted  to  me  by  a — a  friend  in  Beech  wood.' 

" '  Mrs  David  West  ? '  and  Mattie  seemed  to  be  think 
ing  us  she  examined  the  package,  which  felt  like  a  small 
square  box.  '  Mrs.  David  West  ?  No,  I  know  no  such 
person;  but  then  I've  only  lived  here  three  months 
There's  Bell  Yerner  now  coming  in  the  gate.  Maybe  she 
will  know,  though  they  have  only  been  here  since  last 
autumn.  I'll  ask  her,  and  you  be  in  readiness  to  coma 
down  if  she  inquires  for  you,  as  she  certainly  will.  You 
look  sweet  in  your  white  wrapper,  with  the  blue  ribbon 
round  your  waist.  I  wish  blue  was  becoming  to  me — 
Yes,  yes,  Dinah,  I'm  coming,'  and  she  fluttered  down  to 
the  hall,  where  I  heard  a  sound  of  kissing,  accompanied 
with  little  cooing  tones  of  endearment,  such  as  Mattie 
has  always  been  famous  for ;  then  a  whisper,  and  then  ] 
shut  the  door,  for  I  was  sure  they  were  talking  of  me. 
As  a  general  thing  I  dread  to  meet  grand  people,  I  had 
enough  of  them  at  Newport :  and  so  I  hated  to  meet  Miss 
Bell  Yerner;  and  after  I  was  sent  for  I  waited  a  little, 
half  wishing  myself  away  from  Morrisville. 

"  I  found  her  a  stylish,  cold-looking  girl,  who,  after  tak 
ing  me  in,  at  a  glance,  from  my  head  to  my  slippers,  said 
rather  abruptly : 

"  *  Excuse  me,  Miss  Freeman,  but  weren't  you  at  New 
port  last  summer  ? ' 


88  DORAS  LIA37. 

"  '  Yes,'  I  answered,  now  scanning  her,  to  discover,  if 
possible,  some  trace  of  a  person  seen  before. 

" '  I  thought  so,'  she  continued.  *  We  were  at  the  At 
lantic.  We  could  not  get  in  at  the  Ocean  House,  it  wai 
so  full.  Pardon  me,  but  I  am  afraid  I  felt  slightly  ill- 
natured  at  your  party — the  Russells,  I  believe — because 
they  took  so  many  rooms  as  to  shut  us  out  entirely.  If  I 
remember  rightly,  there  were  nine  of  you,  together  with 
three  servants,  and  you  stayed  two  months.  I  used  to 
see  you  on  the  beach,  and  thought  your  bathing-dress  so 
pretty.  We  were  a  little  jealous,  too,  at  our  house  of 
Miss  Freeman,  who  was  styled  the  belle." 

'*  *  Oh,  no,'  I  exclaimed,  feeling  very  much  embarrassed, 
1 1  couldn't  be  a  belle.  I  did  not  go  much  in  society.  I 
stayed  with  Margaret  who  was  sick,  or  helped  take  care 
of  the  children.' 

'"Oh,  yes,'  she  rejoined,  '  I  heard  of  the  invalid  Mrs. 
Russell,  who  exacted  so  much  of  her  sweet-tempered  sis 
ter.  The  gentlemen  were  very  indignant.  By  the  way; 
how  is  Mrs.  Russell  ? ' 

"  I  did  not  like  the  way  she  spoke  of  Margaret,  and  with 
as  much  dignity  as  possible  I  replied  that  Mrs.  Russell 
was  still  out  of  health,  and  I  feared  would  always  remain 
BO.  Somehow  I  fancied  that  the  fact  of  there  having  been 
nine  of  us,  with  three  servants,  and  that  we  stayed  at  the 
Ocean  House  two  months  did  more  towards  giving  Miss 
Verner  a  high  opinion  of  me  than  all  Mattie  must  have 


DORA'S  DIARY,  3$ 

Mid  in  my  praise,  for  she  became  very  gracious,  so  that  1 
really  liked  her,  and  wished  I  had  as  fine  and  polished  an 
air  as  she  carried  with  her.  When  we  had  talked  of  th« 
Strykers,  and  Waldos,  and  Rathbones,  Mattie  suddenly 
asked  if  Bell  knew  a  Mrs.  David  West  in  town, 

«  '  Mrs.  David  West  ?  Mrs.  David  West  ? '  It  did  seem 
as  if  Miss  Verner  had  heard  the  name,  and  that  it  be 
longed  to  a  widow  living  on  the  Ferrytown  road.  *  But 
»r hy  do  you  ask  ? '  she  said.  '  It  can't  be  any  one  desir 
able  to  know.' 

"  Mattie  explained  why,  and  Miss  Verner  good-natur 
edly  offered  to  inquire,  but  Mattie  said  no,  their  man  Peter 
would  ascertain  and  take  the  package.  So  after  Miss 
Verner  was  gone,  and  Peter  came  round  to  prune  a  rose 
bush,  Mattie  put  him  the  same  question : 

" «  Did  he  know  Mrs.  David  West  ? ' 

"  '  Yes,  he  knew  where  she  lived ;  she  had  that  hand 
some  grandchild.' 

"  Of  course  Mattie  deputed  him  at  once  to  do  my  errand, 
and  I  consented,  though  I  wished  so  much  to  go  myself. 
Running  up-stairs  I  wrote  on  a  card  : 

"  *  Dr.  West,  of  Beechwood,  commissioned  me  to  be  the 
bearer  of  this  little  package,  which  I  should  have  brought 
to  you  myself  had  Mrs.  Randall  known  where  to  find 

"  *  DOEA  FREEMAN,  West  Lawn.' 


40  DOHA'S  DIARY. 

"I  did  not  see  Peter  again  until  long  after  dinner,  and 
then  I  asked  if  he  had  done  my  errand. 

"'Yes,  miss,'  he  replied.  'She  was  much  obliged. 
She's  a  nice  woman.' 

"  '  Peter,  don't  those  verbenas  need  sheltering  from  the 
hot  sun?'  Mr.  Randall  called  out,  his  manner  indicat 
ing  that  by  volunteering  information  respecting  Mrs. 
David  West,  Peter  was  getting  too  familiar. 

"  Mr.  Randall  is  very  proud,  and  so  is  Mattie,  but  in  a 
different  way.  If  she  knew  how  much  I  wish  to  see 
Mrs.  West,  or  at  least  learn  something  of  her,  she  would 
never  rest  until  the  wish  was  gratified.  We  took  a  walk 
after  tea  to  the  village  cemetery,  of  which  the  people  are 
justly  proud,  for  it  is  a  most  beautiful  spot,  divesting  the 
dark,  still  grave  of  half  its  terrors.  There  are  some 
splendid  monuments  there,  one  costing  I  dare  not  tell 
how  much.  It  was  reared  to  the  memory  of  General 
Morris,  for  whom  the  town  was  named,  but  this  did  not 
impress  me  one  half  so  much  as  a  solitary  grave  standing 
apart  from  all  the  others  and  enclosed  by  a  slender  iron 
fence.  The  grass  in  the  little  yard  was  fresh  and  green, 
and  there  were  many  roses  growing  there.  The  stone  waa 
a  plain  slab  of  Italian  marble,  with  only  these  words  upon 
it: 

" «  Anna,  aged  20.' 

*  Even  Mattie  was  interested,  and  we  leaned  a  long  time 
ML  the  gate,  speculating  upon  the  Anna  sleeping  at  our 


DORA'S  DIARY.  41 

feet.  Who  was  she,  and  whose  the  hand  of  love  which 
had  been  so  often  busy  there?  She  was  young,  only 
twenty  when  she  died.  Had  many  years  been  joined  to 
the  past  since  she  was  laid  to  rest  ?  Was  she  beautiful, 
and  good,  and  pure  ?  Yes,  she  was  all  that,  I  fancied, 
and  I  even  dared  to  pluck  a  rose-bud  whose  parent  stalk 
had  taken  root  near  the  foot  of  the  grave.  I  can  see  it 
now  in  the  glass  of  water  where  I  put  it  after  returning 
home.  That  rose  and  that  grave  have  interested  me 
strangely,  painfully  I  may  say,  as  if  the  Anna  whom  they 
represented  were  destined  to  cross  my  path,  if  ever  the 
dead  can  rise  up  a  barrier  between  the  living. 

"June  15th. 

"  A  steady  summer  rain  has  kept  us  in-doors  all  day,  but 
I  have  enjoyed  the  quiet  so  much.  It  seems  as  if  I  never 
should  get  rested,  and  I  am  surprised  to  find  how  tired  I 
am,  and  how  selfish  I  am  growing.  I  was  wicked  enough 
to  be  sorry  when  in  the  afternoon  Bell  Verner  came, 
bringing  her  crocheting  and  settling  herself  for  a  visit. 
She  is  very  sociable,  and  asks  numberless  questions  about 
Beechwood  and  its  inhabitants.  I  wonder  why  I  told  her 
of  everybody  but  Dr.  West,  for  I  did,  but  of  him  I  could 
not  talk,  and  did  not. 

"  SATTJHDAY,  June  16th. 

"  A  long  letter  from  Johnnie,  and  so  like  him,  that  I 
eaanot  find  it  in  my  heart  to  scold  hi™  on  paper  for  hie 


42  DOHA'S  DIART. 

dreadful  language.     I  will  talk  to  him  on  my  return,  and 
tell  him  he  must  be  more  choice  of  words  and  must  make 
an  effort  to  learn  to  spell,  though  I  believe  it  is  natural 
to  tho  Russells  to  spell  badly.     I  can  see  just  how  they 
miss  me  at  home,  and  I  cried  over  the  letter  till  I  was  al* 
most  sick.     I  am  sure  they  want  me  there,  and  I  wonder 
what  they  would  say  if  they  knew  how  the  Randalls,  and 
Verners,  and  Strykers  are  plotting  to  keep  me  here  un 
til  September,  Mattie  and  Bell  saying  they  will  then  go 
with  me  to  Beechwood.     Just  think  of  those  two  fine 
ladies  at  our  house.     To  be  sure,  it  is  quite  as  expensively 
furnished  as  either  Mattie's  or  Bell  Verner's,  and  we 
keep  as  many  servants ;  but  the  children,  the  confusion ! 
What  would  they  do  ?  No,  I  must  not  stay,  though  I  should 
enjoy  it  vastly.     I  like  Bell  Verner,as  I  know  her  better. 
There  is  a  depth  of  character  about  her  for  which  I  did 
not  at  first  give  her  credit.     One  trait,  however,  annoys 
me  excessively.     She  wants  to  get  married,  and  makes 
no  secret  of  it  either.     She's  old  enough,  too, — twenty- 
eight,  as  she  told  me  of  her  own  accord,  just  as  she  ift 
given  to  telling  everything  about  herself.     Secretly,  I 
think  she  would  suit  Dr.  West,  only  she  might  feel  above 
him,  she  is  so  exclusive.     I  wonder  Margaret  should  tell 
liim  that  story  about  Lieutenant  Reed,  and  I  am  glad 
Johnnie  set  him  right.    I  would  not  have  Lieutenant  Reed 
fear  the  diamonds  of  India,  and  yet  he  is  a  great,  good- 
natured,  vain  fellow,  who  is  coming  here  by  and  by.     I 


DORA'S  DIART.  43 

think  I'll  turn  him  over  to  Bell,  though  I  can  xaiicy  ho~w 
her  black  eyes  would  flash  upon  him. 

"  I  have  had  a  note  from  Mrs.  David  West,  inviting  me 
to  come  and  see  her,  and  this  is  the  way  it  reads : 

" '  MY  DEAR  Miss  FREEMAN  : 

" '  I  am  much  obliged  for  the  trouble  you  took  in  bring 
ing  me  that  package,  and  did  I  go  out  at  all,  except  to 
church,  I  would  thank  you  in  person.  If  you  can,  will 
vou  come  and  see  me  before  you  return  to  Beech  wood  ?  L 
should  like  to  talk  with  you  about  the  Doctor.  Any  one 
Interested  in  him  has  a  sure  claim  upon  my  friendship. 
"  '  Yours  respectfully, 

"'HELEN  WEST. 
•' '  GROVE  STREET,  No.  30.' 

"  Nothing  can  be  more  ladylike  than  the  handwriting, 
and,  indeed,  the  whole  thing.  Mrs.  David  West  may  be 
poor  and  unknown,  but  she  is  every  whit  as  refined  and 
cultivated  as  either  Mattie  or  Bell.  I  shall  see  her,  too, 
before  I  leave  Morris ville ;  but  why  does  she  take  it  for 
granted  that  I  am  interested  in  Dr.  West  ?  I  am  not,  ex 
cept  as  a  good  physician ;  and  what  is  she  to  him  ?  Here 
I  am  puzzling  my  brain  and  wasting  the  gas,  when  I 
ought  to  be  in  bed :  so  with  one  look  at  that  rose,  which  I 
have  been  foolish  enough  to  press, — the  rose  from  Anna'i 
grave, — I'll  bid  the  world  good-night." 


CHAPTKR  YL 

LETTERS. 

No.  1. 
Mrs.  David  West's  Letter. 

DEAR  RICHARD: 

"  Your  package  of  money  and  little  note,  sent 
by  Miss  Dora  Freeman,  was  brought  to  me  with 
a  line  from  the  young  lady  by  Mr.  Randall's  colored  ser 
vant  Peter.  I  know  you  could  not  afford  to  send  me  so 
much,  and  I  wish  you  had  kept  a  part  for  yourself. 
Surely,  if  the  commandment  with  promise  means  any 
thing, — and  we  know  it  does, — you,  my  son,  will  be 
blessed  for  your  kindness  to  your  widowed  mother,  aa 
well  as  your  unselfish  devotion  to  those  who  have  been, 
one  the  innocent,  the  other  the  guilty,  cause  of  so  much 
suffering.  God  reward  my  boy — my  only  boy  as  I  some 
times  fear.  Surely  if  Robert  were  living  he  would  have 
Bent  us  word  ere  this.  I  have  given  Hm  up,  asking  God 
to  pardon  his  sin,  which  was  great. 

"  And  so  the  debt  is  paid  at  last !  Dear  Richard,  when 
1  read  that  J  shed  tears  of  gratitude  and  thanksgiving 
that  you  were  free  from  a  load  you  never  should  hav« 


LETTERS.  45 

borne.  It  was  a  large  sum  for  you  to  earn  and  pay  in 
less  than  seven  years,  besides  supporting  me  and  Robin. 
He  grows  dearer  to  me  every  day,  and  yet  I  seldom  look 
at  him  without  a  great  choking  sob  rising  to  my  throat. 
He  is  like  his  mother,  and  I  loved  her  as  if  she  had  been 
my  daughter.  O  Anna,  lost  darling,  was  she  as  pure 
and  sinless  when  she  died  as  when  she  crept  into  my  arms 
and  whispered  of  her  newly  found  hope  in  Him  who  can 
keep  us  all  from  sin  ?  God  only  knows.  Alas !  that  her 
end  should  be  wrapt  in  so  dark  a  mystery  ;  and  ten  times 
alas !  that  any  one  should  be  malignant  enough  to  blame 
you,  who  had  well-nigh  4ied  when  the  trouble  fell  upon 
us. 

"  And  so  you  fear  you  are  more  interested  in  this  Dora 
than  you  ought  to  be,  or  rather  that  she  is  far  too  good 
for  you. 

"  She  must  be  very,  very  good,  if  my  boy  be  not  worthy 
of  her. 

**  Yes,  the  Randalls  are  very  grand,  fashionable  people, 
as  you  may  know  from  the  fact  that  the  Yerners  and 
Strykers  took  them  up  at  once.  I  don't  know  what  in 
fluence  they  may  have  over  Dora ;  not  a  bad  one,  I  hope, 
I  think  I  saw  her  the  other  night  riding  by  on  horseback, 
In  company  with  Bell  Yerner.  It  was  too  dark  to  see 
her  distinctly,  but  I  heard  Miss  Yerner  say,  in  reply  evi 
dently  to  some  remark,  '  I  never  trouble  myself  to  know 
or  inquire  after  any  one  out  of  ov  set,'  and  then  they 


46  LETTERS. 

galloped  on  rapidly.  As  I  am  not  in  Miss  Verner't 
'  set '  she  will  not  psobably  bring  Dora  to  ses  me,  but  1 
have  obviated  that  difficulty  by  writing  her  a  note  and 
inviting  her  to  call  on  me.  Did  I  do  right  ?  I  am 
anxious  to  see  her,  for  a  mother  can  judge  better  than 
her  son  of  what  is  in  woman. 

"  Yours  affectionately, 

"HELEN  WEST." 
"  By  the  way,  did  you  know  that  Mr.  Randall  was  tie 

purchaser  of  West  Lawn,  our  old  home  ? 

«  H.  W." 

No.  2. 
Extract  from  Dr.   Wesfs   reply. 

"  DEAR  MOTHER  : — Your  letters  do  mo  so  much  good 
and  make  me  strong  to  bear,  though  really  I  have  per 
haps  as  little  to  trouble  me  as  do  most  men  of  my  years 
If  the  mystery  concerning  poor  Anna  were  made  clear,— 
if  we  were  sure  that  she  was  safe  with  the  good  Shep 
herd,  and  if  we  knew  that  Robert,  whether  dead  or  alJve, 
had  repented  of  his  sin,  I  should  be  very  happy. 

"There's  Dora,  I  know, — a  continuous  trouble,  but 
one  with  which  I  would  not  willingly  dispense.  You  ask 
if  you  did  right  to  invite  her  to  call.  You  seldom  do 
wrong ;  but  in  this  case,  O  mother,  I  have  become  a 
perfect  coward  since  Dora  left  me.  I  thought  I  wanted 
her  to  know  all  that  we  know  of  Anna  and  Robin ;  but 
now  the  very  possibility  of  her  hearing  the  little  you  can 


LETTERS.     •  47 

tell,  and  then  giving  it  the  natural  construction  which  she 
might,  makes  the  cold  sweat  ooze  out  in  drops  upon  my 
lace.  If  she  comes,  tell  her  as  little  as  possible.  It 
gives  me  a  thrill  of  satisfaction  to  know  that  she  is  at 
West  Lawn,  enjoying  the  roses  I  planted.  Dear  West 
Lawn!  but  for  that  terrible  misfortune  which  prompted 
us  to  sell  it,  you  might  have  belonged  to  Miss  Bell  Ver- 
ner's  set.  But  don't  tell  Dora.  I'd  rather  she  should  like 
we  for  myself,  and  not  for  what  I  used  to  be."  *  *  *  * 

No.  3. 

Extract  from  Margarets  letter  to  Dora. 
******  I  do  think  you  might  come  home,  instead  of 
asking  to  stay  longer.  It's  right  shabby  in  you  to  leave 
me  so  long,  when  you  know  how  much  I  suffer.  The 
children  behave  dreadfully,  and  even  John  has  acted  real 
cross,  as  if  he  thought  *11  ailed  me  was  nervousness.  You 
cannot  love  me,  Dora,  aa  much  as  I  do  you,  and  I  think 
it's  downright  ungrateful  after  all  I'v?  done  for  you  since 
father  died.  If  you  care  fot  me  at  all,  youll  come  in  just 
one  week  from  to-day.  I  have  about  decided  to  go  to 
Saratoga,  and  want  you  to  go  'rith  me.  Be  sure  and 

come." 

No.  4, 

Extract  from  Mattie's  le&vr  to  Margaret. 
"  DEAR  MRS.  RUSSELL  :  —  Excuw  the  liberty   £  am 
taking,  but  really  if  you  and  your  husbauV   knev  ho* 


|g  LETTERS. 

much  Dora  has  improved  since  leaving  home,  and  how 
much  she  really  needs  rest,  you  would  not  insist  on  her 
coming  home  so  soon.  Husband  and  I  and  Bell  Verner 
•11  think  it  too  bad,  and  I  for  one  veto  her  leaving  us." 

No.  5. 

Extract  from  Mr.  HandaWs  letter. 
''  MBS.  RUSSELL.  —  MADAM  :  —  Both  myself  and  Mrs. 
Randall  are  exceedingly  loth  to  part  with  our  young 
guest,  whom  rest  is  benefiting  so  much.  You  will  do 
us  and  her  a  great  favor  to  let  her  remain,  and  I  may  add 
I  think  it  your  duty  so  to  do." 


Scene  in  Mrs.  RwaeWs  parlor  one  morning  about  tht 
first  of  July. 

Squire  John  nervously  fumbling  his  watch-chain,  look 
ing  very  hot  and  distressed  ;  Johnnie  all  swollen  up,  look 
ing  like  a  little  volcano  ready  to  explode  ;  Mrs.  Russell  cry 
ing  over  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Randall's  letters,  wondering  what 
business  it  was  of  theirs  to  meddle  and  talk,  just  as  if  she 
did  not  do  her  duty  by  Dora.  Who,  she'd  like  to  know,  had 
supported  Dora  these  dozen  years,  sending  her  to  school, 
taking  her  to  Newport,  and  buying  her  such  nice  dresses? 
[t  was  right  mean  in  Dora,  and  she  would  not  stand  it. 
Dora  should  come  home,  and  John  should  write  that  very 
lay  to  tell  her  so,  unless  he  liked  Dora  better  than  he  did 
Hnrt  as  she  presumed  he  did  —  yes,  she  knew  he  did. 


LETTERS.  49 

*•  Thx,  deration,  mother,  why  shouldn't  he  like  Auntie 
best  ?  "  and  with  this  outburst,  Johnnie  plunged  heart 
and  soul  into  the  contest.  "  Who,  I'd  like  to  know, 
makes  the  house  decent  as  a  fellow  likes  to  have  it, — a 
married  old  chap,  I  mean,  like  father.  'Tain't  you.  It's 
Auntie,  and  so  the  whole  co-boozle  of  servants  say.  You 
ask  'em.  Talk  about  what  you've  done  for  Dora  these 
dozen  years,  taking  her  to  Newport,  and  all  that !  I  think 
I'd  dry  up  on  that  strain  and  tell  what  she'd  done  for  me. 
Hasn't  there  been  a  baby  about  every  other  week  since 
she  lived  here,  and  hasn't  Auntie  had  the  whole  care  of  the 
brats  ?  And  at  Newport  how  was  it  ?  I  never  told  be 
fore,  but  I  will  now.  I  heard  two  nice  gentlemen  talk 
ing  over  w  oat  a  pretty  girl  Miss  Freeman  was,  and  how 
mean  and  selfish  it  was  in  her  sister  to  make  such  a 
little  nigger  of  her.  They  didn't  say  nigger,  but  that's 
what  they  meant.  Dora  ain't  coming  home,  no  how. 
You  can  go  to  Saratogo  without  her.  Take  Clem,  and 
Daisy,  and  Tish,  and  Jim.  You  know  they  act  the  best 
of  the  lot.  Leave  me  and  Burt  and  Ben  at  home.  I'll 
see  to  them,  and  we  shall  get  on  well  enough." 

By  this  time  Margaret  was  in  hysterics,  to  think  a  son 
of  hers  should  abuse  her  so,  with  his  father  standing  by 
and  never  once  trying  to  btop  him.  Possibly  some  such 
idea  crept  through  Squire  John's  brain,  for,  putting  into 
his  voice  as  much  sternness  as  he  was  capable  of  doing, 

Le  said,  "  My  boy,  I'm  astonished  that  you  should  ua» 
8 


50  LETTERS. 

such  shocking  words  as  thunderation,  co-boozle,  dry  up% 
and  the  like.  Your  Aunt  Dora  would  be  greatly  dis 
tressed;  but,  Madge,"  turning  to  his  sobbing  wife  and 
trying  to  wind  his  arm  around  her  waist,  "  Johnnie  ifl 
right,  on  the  whole  ;  his  plan  is  a  good  one.  We'll  take 
Clem,  and  Rosa,  too,  if  you  like,  leaving  Johnnie,  Ben, 
and  Burt  at  home,  and  Dora  shall  stay  where  she  is. 
She  was  tired  when  she  went  away,  and  very  pale.  You 
are  not  selfish,  Madge ;  you'll  let  her  stay.  I'll  write  so 
now, — shall  I  ?  "  and  there  was  a  sound  very  much  like  a 
very  large,  hearty  kiss,  while  a  moment  after  Johnnie, 
in  the  kitchen,  was  turning  a  round  of  somersaults,  strik 
ing  his  heels  in  the  fat  sides  of  the  cook,  and  tripping  up 
little  Burt  in  his  delight  at  the  victory  achieved  foi 
Dora. 

No.  6. 

Extract  from  Johnnie's  letter  to  Dora. 

"July  7th. 

"  DEAB  AUNTIE  : — The  house  is  still  a  as  mouse,  and 
seems  so  funny.  The  old  folks,  with  Tish,  Jim,  Daisy, 
Clem,  and  Rosa,  have  cut  stick  for  Saratoga,  leaving  me 
with  Ben  and  Burt.  You  orto  have  seen  me  pitch  into 
mother  about  your  staying.  I  give  it  to  her  good,  and 
twitted  about  your  being  a  drudge.  I  meant  it  all 
then,  but  now  that  she  L"  gone,  I'll  be — I  guess  I'll  skip 
the  nan  woras,  ana  say  that  every  time  I  rem'bei 
what  1  said  to  her,  there's  a  thumpin'  great  lump  comes 


LETTERS.  53 

in  my  throat,  and  1  wish  1  hadn't  said  it.  I've  begun 
six  letters  to  tell  her  1  am  sorry,  and  she  only  been  gone 
two  days,  but  I've  tore  'em  all  up,  and  now  when  you  see 
her  you  tell  her  I'm  sorry, — 'cause  I  am,  and  I  keep 
thinkin  of  when  I  was  a  little  shaver  in  pettycoats,  how 
she  sometimes  took  me  in  her  lap  and  said  I  was  a 
preshus  little  hunny,  the  joy  of  her  life.  She  says  I'm 
the  pest  of  it  now,  and  she  never  kisses  me  no  more,  nor 
lets  me  kiss  her  'cause  she  says  I  slawber  and  wet  her 
face,  and  muss  her  hair  and  dress.  But  she's  mother, 
and  I  wish  I  hadn't  sed  them  nasty  things  to  her  and 
maid  her  cry. 

"  Dr.  "West  was  here  just  now,  and  wanted  to  borrow 
a  book,  but  when  he  found  it  was  yourn  he  wouldn't  take 
it ;  he  said  he'd  write  and  ask  permission. 

"  We  get  on  nice,  only  cook  has  spanked  Ben  once  and 
Burt  twice.  I  told  her  if  she  did  it  agen  I'd  spank  her, 
and  so  I  will.  I  think  I've  got  her  under,  so  she  knows 
I'm  man  of  the  house.  The  old  cat  has  weened  her  kit 
tens.  Burt  shut  one  of  'em  up  in-  the  meal  chest,  and 
the  white-f&sed  cow  has  come  in,  which  means  she's  got  a 
calph,"  «  Xours, 

"  Jomrana." 


52  LETTERS. 

No.  7. 

Dr.  Wesfs  letter,  on  which  he  spent  three  hottra,  watt 
ivy  half  a  dozen  sheets  of  note-paper,  and  which  when 
Jitnished  did  not  please  him  at  all. 

"  Miss  FREEMAN  : — You  probably  do  not  expect  me  to 
write  to  you,  and  will  be  surprised  at  receiving  this  let 
ter.  The  fact  is  I  want  permission  to  go  to  that  little 
library,  which,  until  this  morning,  I  did  not  know  was 
/our-*.  There  are  some  books  I  would  like  to  read,  but 
will  not  do  so  without  leave  from  the  owner. 

'*  I  hear  you  are  enjoying  your  visit,  and  I  am  glad,  al 
though  I  miss  you  very  much.  Of  course  you  know  your 
brother  and  sister  are  at  Saratoga,  and  that  Johnnie  is 
keeping  house,  as  he  says.  If  you  have  not  time  to  an- 
gwer  this  to  me,  please  say  to  Johnnie  whether  I  can 

read  the  books  or  not. 

"  Yours  truly, 

"  RICHAED  WEST." 

No.  8. 

Dortfs  reply,  over  which  she  spent  two  hours  a/nd  wasted 
Jive  sheets  of  note-paper. 

"  DR.  WEST. — DEAR  SIR  : — You  really  were  over-nice 
•bout  the  books,  and  I  should  feel  like  scolding  were  it  not 
that  your  fastidiousness  procured  me  a  letter  which  I  did 
not  expect  from  you.  Certainly,  you  may  take  any  book 
jrmi  like. 


LETTERS.  53 

"  And  so  you  miss  me  ?  I  wonder  if  that  is  true.  I 
should  not  think  you  would.  I'm  not  worth  missing 
I  hope  you  will  see  Johnnie  as  often  as  possible. 

"  Yours  respectfully, 

"DORA. 

"P.  S. — 1  am  going  to-morrow   to  see  Mrs.  David 


CHAPTER    VII. 

DORA'S   DIAKY  CONTINUED. 

T  is  a  long  time  since  I  wrote  a  word  in  this  book  j 
I  have  been  so  happy  and  so  busy  withal ;  visits, 
rides,  picnics,  and  everything.  I  did  not  know 
that  life  was  so  bright  and  pleasant  as  I  have  found  it  here 
in  Morrisville,  where  everybody  seems  trying  to  enter 
tain  me.  Mattie's  brother  Charlie  is  here,  but  he  behaves 
like  a  man ;  does  not  annoy  me  one  bit,  but  flirts  shock 
ingly  with  Sell  Verner,  who  flirts  as  hard  in  return.  He 
easingly  asked  me  one  day  about  Dr.  West,  and  when 
Bell  inquired  who  he  was,  he  said  he  was  '  a  country 
doctor  of  little  pills ;  a  sort  of  lackadaisical  chap,  who 
read  service  very  loud,  and  almost  touched  the  pew  rail 
ing  when  he  bowed  in  the  Apostles'  Creed.' 

"  I  grew  so  very  angry  defending  Dr.  West  that  Bell 
honestly  believes  I  care  for  him,  and  kindly  stops  Lieuten 
ant  Reed  when  he  begins  his  fun.  I  like  Bell  Verner  more 
and  more,  only  she  is  too  proud.  How  I  cried  over  that 
letter  from  Margaret  telling  me  to  come  home,  and  how 
(  tried  not  to  have  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Randall  answer  it ;  but 
(Ley  did,  and  there  came  back  such  a  nice  response  from 


DORA3  DIARY  CONTINUED.  55 

John.  What  a  dear,  unselfish  mau  he  is,  and  how  smooth 
he  made  it  look, — so  smooth  that  I  really  felt  as  if  doing 
him  a  favor  by  staying  until  Johnnie's  letter  was  received, 
and  I  guessed  at  once  the  storm  through  which  they  had 
passed. 

"  Will  I  ever  forget  the  day  I  received  a  letter  from  Dr 
West?  I  could  scarcely  credit  my  own  eyes,  yet  ther« 
was  his  name,  Richard  West,  looking  so  natural.  I  felt 
the  blood  tingling  in  my  veias,  even  though  he  merely 
wrote  to  ask  me  if  he  might  read  my  books,  the  foolish 
mau  !•  Of  course  he  migH,  He  says  he  misses  me,  and 
this  i  think  is  -why  ihe  letter  is  worth  so  much,  and 
why  )  answered  it.  Perhaps  it  was  foolish  to  do  so,  but 
I  caiTt  help  it  now.  It  is  not  at  aU  likely  he'll  write 
again .  though  I  find  myself  fancying  how  I  shall  feel,  and 
what  he  would  say  in  a  second  letter.  Bell  Verner  knows 
he  w*x)te,  for  I  told  her,  but  pretended  I  did  not  care. 
To-n  orrow  I  am  going  at  last  to  see  Mrs.  David  West. 

"July  15th. — I  have  seen  Mrs.  David  West;  have 
looked  into  her  eyes,  so  like  the  doctor's ;  have  heard  her 
voice ;  have  seen  the  child ;  and  oh  !  why  am  I  so 
wretched,  and  why,  when  I  came  back,  did  I  tear  up 
that  rose  from  Anna's  grave  and  throw  it  to  the  winds? 
I  hate  this  room.  I  cannot  bear  it,  for  Anna  used  to 
occupy  it ;  she  haunts  me  continually.  She  died  in  thia 
rooifl.  Itichard  kissed  her  here,  and  here  that  child  waa 
bora.  Oh,  what  am  I  to  think  except  what  I  do  ?  And 


56  DOHA'S  DIARY  CONTINUED. 

yet  it  is  all  suspicion,  based  on  what  a  gossiping  woman 
told  me.  I  wish  she  had  never  come  here.  I  would 
rather  have  cooked  the  dinner  myself  than  have  heaid 
what  I  have. 

"  It  was  arranged  that  Mattie  shoiild  go  with  me  to  wen 
this  Mrs.  David  West,  and  I  thought  of  little  else  all 
the  morning ;  but  when  dinner  came  Mattie  had  been 
seized  with  one  of  her  violent  headaches,  and  it  was  im 
possible  for  her  even  to  sit  up.  Knowing  how  much  I 
had  anticipated  the  call,  and  not  wishing  to  have  me  dis 
appointed,  she  insisted  that  I  should  go  without  her, 
Peter  acting  as  my  escort  there,  while  the  new  cook,  a 
Mrs.  Felton,  who,  it  seems,  had  business  on  that  street, 
would  call  for  me  on  her  way  home.  This  was  the  ar 
rangement,  and  at  about  four  o'clock  I  started.  I  had  in 
some  way  received  the  impression  that  Mrs.  David  West 
lived  on  Elm  Street,  and  when  we  passed  that  point  I 
asked  Peter  if  we  were  right. 

"  'Yes,  miss,  Grove  Street, — -just  there  a  ways  in  the 
neatest  little  cottage  you  ever  set  eyes  on,  I  reckon.' 

"  Involuntarily  I  thought  of  the  woman  and  child  seen 
that  first  evening  of  my  arrival  at  Morrisville,  and  some 
thing  told  me  I  was  going  straight  to  that  cottage  with 
its  roses,  its  vines,  and  bay-windows.  The  surmise  waa 
correct.  I  knew  the  house  in  an  instant,  and  had  there 
been  a  doubt  it  would  have  been  dispelled  by  the  widowY 
cap  and  the  little  child  out  on  the  grass-plat,  j 


DOHA'S  DIARY  CONTINUED.  57 

they  were  that  other  summer  day  so  like  this  and  yet  so 
unlike  it,  for  then  I  never  guessed  how  sharp  a  pang  i 
•hould  be  suffering  now. 

"  *  There  she  is.  That's  Mrs.  West  with  Robin,'  Peter 
said,  and  the  next  moment  I  was  speaking  to  Mrs.  David 
West,  and  before  she  said  to  me,  *  You  know  my  son,1 
I  felt  sure  she  was  the  doctor's  mother. 

"  The  same  fine  cast  of  feature,  the  same  kind,  honest 
expression  beaming  in  the  dark  eye,  and  the  same  curve 
of  the  upper  lip, — said  by  some  to  be  always  indicative 
of  high  breeding.  The  mother  and  son  were  very  much 
alike,  except  that  she  as  a  female  was  noticeable  for  a 
softer  style  of  beauty.  I  never  saw  one  to  whom  the 
widow's  cap  was  so  becoming.  It  seemed  peculiarly 
adapted  to  her  sad,  sweet  face  and  the  silken  bands  of 
grayish  hair,  which  it  did  not  conceal.  There  was  also  in 
her  manner  and  speech  a  refinement  which  even  Bell  Ver- 
ner  might  have  imitated  with  advantage.  My  heart 
went  out  to  her  at  once,  and  by  the  time  I  was  seated  in 
the  rustic  chair,  for  I  preferred  remaining  in  the  yard,  T 
felt  as  much  at  ease  as  if  I  had  known  her  all  my  life. 

"  *  This  is  Robin,'  she  said,  turning  to  the  child,  who  I 
now  discovered  was  a  cripple  in  its  feet,  and  unable  to 
walk.  '  Did  Richard  ever  tell  you  of  Robin  ?  ' 

"  There  was  a  hesitancy  now  in  her  voice,  as  if  she  kne* 
Richard  had  never  told  me  of  him,  and  doubted  1  er  owi 

integrity  in  asking  the  question. 
8* 


68  DORAS  DIARY  CONTINUED. 

" '  No,'  C  replied,  '  the  doctor  never  told  me  of  Robin, 
nor  yet  of  himself.' 

"  '  Eichard  is  very  reticent,'  she  answered ;  and  then 
as  she  saw  my  glance  constantly  directed  to  Robin,  she 
evidently  tried  to  keep  me  from  talking  of  him  by  asking 
numberless  questions  about  Richard,  and  by  telling  me 
what  a  good,  kind  child  he  was  to  her. 

"  It  is  true  I  did  not  suspect  her  then  of  such  a  motive, 
but  I  can  see  now  how  she  headed  me  off  from  the  dan 
gerous  ground  on  which  I  leaped  at  last,  for  I  could  not 
resist  the  expression  of  that  child's  face,  and  breaking 
away  from  what  she  was  telling  me  of  Richard,  I  knelt 
by  his  chair,  and  kissing  his  round  cheek,  asked : 

" '  Whose  boy  are  you  ? ' 

" '  Papa  Richard's  and  grandma's,'  he  replied,  and  then 
there  flashed  upon  me  the  thought  that  in  spite  of  his 
deep  blue  eyes  and  soft  golden  curls  he  was  like  Dr. 
West.  For  an  instant  I  was  conscious  of  a  sharp,  sting 
ing  pain,  as  I  said  to  myself,  *  Was  Dr.  West  ever  mar 
ried?5  Surely  he  would  have  told  of  that, — would  at 
some  time  have  mentioned  his  wife,  and  with  the  pain 
there  came  the  knowledge  that  I  did  care  more  for  Dr. 
West  than  T  had  supposed ;  that  I  was  jealous  of  the  dead 
woman,  the  mother  of  this  child.  Mrs.  West  must  have 
divined  a  part*  of  my  thoughts,  for  she  said  half  laugh 
ingly,  like  one  under  restraint : 

u  '  He  has  al  ways  called  my  son  "  Papa  Richard,"  as  h« 


DORA'S  DIARY  CONTINUED.  59 

b  the  only  father  the  child  ever  knew,'  and  a  shadow 
flitted  across  her  face  as  she  directed  my  attention  to  a 
tall  heliotrope  near  by.  But  I  was  not  to  be  evaded; 
curiosity  was  aroused,  and  replying  to  her  remark  con 
cerning  the  heliotrope,  I  turned  again  to  Robin,  whose 
little  hand  I  now  held  in  mine,  and  said,  *  He  is  your 
grandchild  ? ' 

"  Suddenly  the  dark  eyes  looked  afar  off  as  if  appealing 
to  something  or  somebody  for  help ;  then  they  softened 
and  tears  were  visible  in  them. 

" ( Poor  little  Robin,  he  has  been  a  source  of  great  sor 
row  as  well  as  of  comfort  to  me,  Miss  Freeman,'  and 
Mrs.  West's  delicate  hand  smoothed  and  unwound  the 
golden  curls  clustering  around  Robin's  head.  '  So  I 
used  to  unwind  her  curls,'  she  continued  abstractedly. 
*  Robin's  mother.  I  must  show  you  her  picture  when 
we  go  in.  She  was  very  beautiful,  more  so  than  any  one 
I  ever  knew,  and  Richard  thinks  the  same.' 

"  Again  that  keen  pain,  as  of  a  sharp  knife  gliding 
through  my  flesh,  passed  over  me,  but  I  listened  breath 
lessly,  while  still  caressing  the  child  she  continued : 

"  '  His  mother  was  my  adopted  daughter :  I  never  had 
ene  of  my  own.  Two  sons  have  been  born  to  me ;  one 
I  have  lost, — and  her  breath  came  gaspingly  like  speaking 
of  the  dead, — '  the  other  you  know  is  Richard.  To  all 
Intents  and  purposes  Anna  was  my  daughter,  and  I  am 
lure  no  mother  ever  loved  her  own  offspring  more  than  I 


60  DORAS  DIARY  CONTINUED. 

did  Anna.  O  Anna  darling,  Anna  darling !  I  never 
dreamed,  "when  I  took  her  to  my  bosom,  that  she  could 
— O  Anna! '  and  Mrs.  West's  voice  broke  down  in  a 
Btorm  of  sobs. 

"  After  this  I  could  not  ask  her  any  more  questions,  and 
in  a  kind  of  maze  I  followed  her  into  the  house,  which 
was  a  perfect  little  gem,  and  showed  marks  of  most  ex 
quisite  taste.  Some  of  the  furniture  struck  me  as  rather 
too  heavy  and  expensive  for  that  cottage,  but  I  gave  it  but 
little  thought,  so  interested  was  I  in  what  I  had  heard 
and  seen. 

" '  That  is  Anna?  Mrs.  West  said,  pointing  to  a  small 
portrait  hanging  upon  the  wall  just  where  the  western 
sunbeams  were  falling  upon  it  and  lighting  it  up  with  » 
wonderful  halo  of  beauty. 

"  Instantly  I  forgot  all  else  in  my  surprise  that  anything 
BO  perfectly  beautiful  could  ever  have  belonged  to  a 
human  being,  and  with  a  scream  of  delight  I  stood  be 
fore  the  picture,  exclaiming,  *  It  is  not  possible  that  this 
is  natural ! ' 

"  *  It  is  said  to  be,'  Mrs.  West  rejoined,  '  though  there 
is  a  look  in  her  eye  which  I  did  not  notice  until  a  few 
months  before  she  die#.  She  was  crazy  at  the  last.' 

"  '  Crazy  ! '  I  repeatedj  now  gazing  with  a  feeling  of 
pity  upon  the  lovely  face,  which  seemed  imbued  with  life. 

"  I  cannot  describe  that  face,  and  I  will  not  attempt  it, 
for  after  I  had  told  of  the  dark  blue  eve*  and  curl*  c/ 


DORA8  DIARY  CONTINUED.  61 

golden  hair,  of  the  pure  white  skin  and  full  ripe  lips, 
yyi,  my  journal,  would  not  have  the  least  idea  of  th« 
face,  for  the  sweet,  heavenly  expression  which  made  it 
what  it  was  can  never  be  described  on  paper.  The 
artist  had  put  it  on  canvas,  so  at  least  said  Mrs.  David 
West,  and  I  believed  her,  drinking  in  its  rare  loveliness 
and  repeating  again,  'TJrazy — poor  Anna !  Was  it  for 
long?' 

" '  No,  not  long ;  she  died  when  Robin  was  born.' 

" '  And  her  husband ;  he  must  have  been  heart-broken,' 
I  ventured  to  say  next,  but  if  Mrs.  West  heard  me,  she 
made  no  reply,  and  with  my  thoughts  in  a  tumult,  I 
continued  looking  at  the  portrait  until,  suddenly  remem 
bering  the  grave  which  had  so  interested  me,  I  asked, 
*  How  old  was  Anna  when  she  died  ? ' 

"  '  Just  twenty,'  was  the  reply ;  while  I  rejoined,  *  I 
am  sure  then  I  have  seen  her  grave.  It  says  upon  the 
stone,  "  Anna,  aged  20." ' 

"  *  Yes,  that's  all  Richard  would  have  on  the  marble. 
It  almost  killed  Richard,  but  God  has  healed  the  wound 
just  as  He  will  heal  all  hearts  which  go  to  Him.' 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  said  what  I  did  next,  unless  it 
were  that  I  should  have  died  if  I  had  not.  The  word* 
were  wrung  from  me  almost  against  my  will : 

"  « Was  Richard  Anna's  husband  ? ' 

"  '  No,  no,  oh  no,  Richard  was  not  her  husland  ! '  Mr* 
West  replied,  quickly. 


62  DORAS  DIARY  CONTINUED. 

"  Heretofore  she  had  answered  my  queries  concerning 
Anna  with  hesitancy,  but  the  'No,  no,  oh  no,  Richard 
was  not  her  husband,'  was  spoken  eagerly,  decidedly,  aa 
if  it  were  a  fact  she  would  particularly  impress  upon  my 
mind.  Then,  as  I  stood  looking  at  her  expectantly,  she 
went  on,  but  this  time  in  the  old,  cautious  manner : 

"  *  I  never  knew  who  Anna's  husband  was.  It  is  a  sad 
story,  which  I  would  gladly  forget,  but  Robin's  presence 
keeps  it  in  my  mind,'  and  bowing  her  head  over  the 
«hild,  the  poor  woman  wept  passionately. 

"  *  Poor  grandma,  don't  cry.  I  love  you !  What 
makes  grandma  cry  over  me  so  much,  and  look  so  sorry 
at  me  ?  Is  it  because  I  am  a  little  lame  boy  ? ' 

_  "  This  Robin  said  to  me,  while  he  tried  to  brush  away 
the  tears  of  her  he  called  grandmother.  He  had  not 
talked  much  before,  but  what  he  said  now  went  through 
my  heart,  and  kissing  his  forehead,  I  whispered  : 

"  'People  sometimes  cry  for  joy.' 

"  '  But  she  don't,'  he  said,  nodding  toward  Mrs.  West, 
who  left  us  alone  while  she  bathed  her  face  and  eyes. 
*  She  looks  so  sorry,  and  says,  "  Poor  Robin,"  so  often. 
I  guess  it's  because  my  feet  will  never  walk,  that  she 
says  that.  I  should  cry  too,  but  Papa  Richard  talked  to 
me  so  good,  and  said  God  made  me  lame ;  that  up  in 
heaven  there  were  no  little  cripples  ;  that  if  I  loved  the 
Saviour,  and  didn't  fret  about  my  feet,  I'd  go  up  there 
some  day ;  and  since  then  I've  tried  hard  not  to  mind, 


DORA'S  DIARY  CONIINUEL.  $3 

and  ever  BO  many  times  a  day  I  say  softly  to  myself, 
"  Will  Jesus  help  Robin  not  to  fret  because  he's  a  poof 
lame  boy,  of  no  use  to  anybody."  I  say  it  way  in  m» 
mouth,  but  God  hears  just  the  same.' 

"  I  could  not  answer  for  my  weeping,  but  kneeling  be 
side  the  lame  boy,  I  wound  my  arms  around  his  neck, 
and  laid  his  curly  head  upon  my  bosom,  just  as  I  would 
have  done  had  it  been  Johnnie,  Ben,  or  Bertie  thus 
afflicted. 

"  '  Seems  like  you  was  most  my  mother,'  he  said, 
caressing  my  cheek  with  his  soft  little  hand.  'You 
don't  look  like  her  much,  only  I  dreamed  once  she  came 
to  me  and  loved  me,  as  you  do,  and  kissed  my  twisted 
feet,  oh  !  so  many  times.  It  was  a  beautiful  dream,  and 
next  day  I  told  it  to  grandma,  and  asked  her  if  she  wasn't 
sure  my  mother  was  in  heaven !  She  did  not  answer 
until  I  said  again,  "  Is  she  in  heaven  ?  "  Then  she  said, 
"  I  hope  so,  Robin ;  "  but  I  wanted  to  know  sure,  and 
kept  on  asking,  until  she  burst  out  with  the  loudest  cry 
I  ever  heard  her  or  anybody  cry,  and  said,  "  God  knows, 
my  little  Robin.  He  will  take  care  of  her.  I  hope  she's 
there !  "  but  she  wouldn't  say  for  sure,  just  as  she  did 
when  the  minister  and  Mrs.  Terry's  baby  died.  Why 
not  ?  Why  didn't  she  ?  Lady,  you  look  good  You 
look  as  if  you  prayed.  Do  you  pray  ?  ' 

"  *  Yes,'  I  answered,  wojidering  if  he  would  call  mj 
careless  words  a  prayer. 


64  DORAS  DIARY  CONTINUED. 

" '  Then  lady,'  and  the  deep  eyes  of  blue  looked  eager 
ly,  wistfully  at  me,  *  then  tell  me  true,  is  my  mother  in 
heaven,  sure  ? ' 

"  What  could  I  do, — I  who  knew  nothing  to  warrant  a 
different  conclusion, — what  could  I  do  but  answer, '  Yes.* 
He  believed  me,  the  trustful,  innocent  child,  clapping  his 
hands  for  joy,  while  the  picture  on  the  wall,  wholly 
wrapped  in  the  summer  sunshine,  seemed  one  gleam  of 
heavenly  glory,  as  if  the  mother  herself  confirmed  the 
answer  given  to  her  boy.  He  did  not  doubt  me  in  the 
least,  neither  did  I  doubt  myself;  Anna  was  safe,  what 
ever  her  sin  might  have  been ;  whether  the  wife  of  one 
husband  or  six,  like  the  woman  of  Samaria,  she  surely 
was  forgiven. 

"  Mrs.  West  had  now  returned,  her  face  as  calm  and 
placid  as  ever,  and  her  voice  as  low  and  sweet. 

"  '  You  have  had  a  sad  call,  I  fear,'  she  said.  f  Richard 
would  not  like  it  if  he  knew  how  I  had  entertained  you, 
but  I'll  promise  to  do  better  next  time,  though  I  cannot 
talk  of  Anna.  Some  day  perhaps  you  may  know  all, 
but  1  would  rather  it  should  be  Richard  who  tells  you.' 

"  She  kept  associating  me  with  Richard,  and  though  the 
association  was  not  distasteful,  it  puzzled  me  somewhat, 
making  me  wonder  *if  he  had  ever  told  her  much  of  me. 

"  At  that  moment  Mattie's  new  cook,  Mrs.  Felton,  ap 
peared,  curtseying  with  a  great  deal  of  humility  to  Mi's, 
West,  who  did  not  seem  especially  pleased  to  meet 


DVRA3  DIARY  CONTINUED.  65 

her.  Still  she  greeted  her  kindly,  and  suffered  her  to 
caress  Robin,  whom  she  called  a  '  precious  lamb,'  a 
'  poor,  little,  stunted  rosy,'  and  numerous  other  extrav 
agant  names. 

" '  I'm  back  to  the  old  place,'  she  said  to  Mrs.  West, 
when  through  with  Robin,  '  but  my,  such  a  change ! 
Tain't  much  such  times  as  when  you  were  there,  I  tell 
you.  Then  we  had  a  head ;  now  we've  none.' 

"  Mrs.  West  stopped  her  at  this  point  by  asking  me  to 
come  again,  and  saying  she  did-not  know  Mrs.  Randall  or 
fihe  would  call  on  me. 

"  { You  might  make  the  first  advance,'  I  said.  '  You 
have  surely  lived  here  longer  than  Mrs.  Randall.' 

" '  Yes,  I  know,'  and  her  pale  face  flushed  up  to  her 
soft  grey  hair.  *  But  times  have  changed  with  me.  I 
do  not  go  out  at  all.' 

"  '  Come  again,'  Robin  said,  as  I  turned  towards  him  ; 
'  come  again,  lady ;  I  likes  you,'  cause  you  seem  some  liko 
Papa  Richard.' 

"  It  grated  harshly  to  hear  the  child  say  Papa  Richard, 
and  involuntarily  I  asked,  '  Why  he  did  not  say  Uncle 
Richard  ?  He  is  not  your  father,'  I  added,  while  the 
child's  eyes  grew  big  with  wonder,  as  he  replied  : 

" '  Then  where  is  my  father,  I'd  like  to  know  ? ' 

"  Mrs  Felton  laughed  a  hateful,  meaning  laugh,  and 
•aid: 

"  *  Come,  Miss  Freeman,  it's  time  we  were 


66  DORA'S  DIARY   CV  NTINUED. 

t{  With  another  good-by  for  Robin  T  shook  Mrs.  West'i 
proffered  hand,  and  was  soon  out  in  the  street  \rith  Mrs. 
Felton,  who,  when  we  were  at  a  safe  distance  from  the 
kouse,  remarked  in  a  very  disagreeable  tone : 

"  *  The  cutest  thing  you  ever  did  was  to  tell  that  child 
rot  to  call  the  doctor  papa.  I'd  have  broke  him  of  it  long 
before  this.  It  don't  sound  well,  'specially  after  all's 
I  sen  said  about  Mr.  Richard  and  Miss  Anna.' 

"  I  wouldn't  question  her,  neither  was  there  a  necessity 
for  it,  as  she  was  bent  on  talking,  and  of  the  Wests,  too. 

" '  I  s'pose  you  know  the  doctor  and  his  mother  used  to 
jown  West  Lawn  ? '  was  the  next  remark,  which  brought 
to  my  mind  the  conversation  between  her  and  Mrs.  West. 

" '  Used  to  own  West  Lawn  ! '  I  repeated,  surprised  out 
oh  my  cool  reserve. 

"  '  To  be  sure  they  did ;  but,  for  some  unaccountable 
«rf  ison  which  nobody  ever  knew,  they  sold  it  about  the 
tijoae  Anna  died,  and  bought  the  place  where  they  live 
now.  Of  course  when  a  person  jumps  right  out  of  a  good 
uest  with  their  eyes  wide  open,  nobody  but  themselves  ia 
to  blame  for  where  they  land.  Mrs.  West  held  her  head 
as  high  as  the  next  one,  drove  her  carriage,  and  used 
»olid  silver  every  day,  and  now  its  all  gone.  I  lived  with 
her  as  chamber-maid  for  a  whole  year.  I  was  Sarah  Pel 
let  then.' 

"  I  was  too  much  invested  to  stop  her,  and  suffered 
het  to  go  on, 


DORAS  DIARY  CONTINUED.  67 

'"I  loved  Miss  Anna,  even  if  she  did  turn  out  bad. 
She  was  the  sweetest-tempered,  prettiest-wayed  girl  you 
ever  seen,  and  when  they  took  her  to  the  hospital  I  felt 
as  bad  as  if  she'd  died.' 

" '  To  the  hospital  ?  The  lunatic  asylum  ?  Did  she  go 
there  ?  '  I  asked ;  and  Sarah  Felton  replied  : 

"  '  Oh  yes  ;  they  hope'd  'twould  cure  her.  Seems's  if 
the  trouble  all  come  to  once.  First,  there  was  Robert, 
Richard's  twin,  who  went  off,  or  was  murdered,  and  has 
never  been  heard  of  since.' 

"  '  Richard's  twin  brother  ran*off?  When?  How  long 
ago  ?  How  long  before  Anna  died,  I  mean  ?  '  I  asked, 
stopping  suddenly  as  a  new  light  dawned  upon  me,  only, 
alas  !  to  fade  into  darkness  at  the  answer. 

" '  Oh,  better  than  a  year.  Yes,  a  full  year ;  for  he'd 
been  gone  a  good  spell  before  it  was  known  to  many.  He 
didn't  live  here ;  'twas  in  New  York,  and  he  hardly  ever 
come  home.  He  was  a  wild  one,  not  much  like  Richard, 
who  was  engaged  to  Anna,  and  that's  what  I  can't  make 
out, — why  he  didn't  marry  her.' 

"  We  were  crossing  a  common  now,  where  there  were 
rustic  benches  beneath  the  trees ;  and  feeling  that  unless 
I  stopped  I  should  fall,  I  was  so  faint  and  sick  with  what 
I  had  heard,  I  said  that  I  was  tired ;  and  seating  myseli 
upon  a  bench,  loosened  my  hat-strings  and  leaned  against 
*  tree,  listening,  while  my  loquacious  companion  contia* 
aed: 


68  DORAS  DIARY  CONTINUED. 

"  'He  was  engaged  for  years,  so  I've  heard,  and  I  kn<m 
he  thought  a  sight  of  her.  It  was  fairly  sickish  to  see 
*em  together,  he  with  his  arm  round  her  and  she  a  lettiii1 
her  head,  with  them  long  curls,  loll  on  his  shoulder. 
They  was  to  be  married  the  very  day  she  died.  'Twas  an 
awful  sight.  I  went  away  from  them  about  the  time 
they  sent  her  to  the  hospital ;  but  I  was  back  a  spell,  as 
the  chamber-maid  was  took  sick,  and  so  I  was  in  it  alL 
Dr.  Richard  kissed  her  when  she  was  dyin',  and  she  whis 
pered  something  in  his  ear.' 

"  '  But  Robin,'  I  gasped ;  '  Anna  was  surely  married  to 
somebody.' 

"  Again  the  smile  I  had  seen  before  and  hated  curled 
her  lip  as  she  answered : 

" '  Yes,  of  course  she  was  married,  for  she  was  a  very 
pious  girl,  runnin'  Sunday-schools,  belongin'  to  the 
church,  tendin'  to  the  poor,  and  all  that.' 

"  I  knew  that  woman  did  not  believe  in  Anna's  piety, 
but  I  did,  and  the  belief  gave  me  comfort  as  I  gazed  up 
into  the  clear  blue  sky  and  said  to  myself,  '  She  is 
there.' 

"  Dimly  I  began  to  perceive  why  Mrs.  West  could  not 
tell  Robin  that  his  mother  was  in  heaven  suro ;  but  I  wai 
glad  I  had  done  so,  without  reasoning  in  the  leaM  upon 
the  matter.  I  exonerated  Anna,  and  only  wrote  bitter 
things  against  poor  Richard,  saying  to  the  woman,  '  &  n» 
Richard  kissed  her  when  she  was  dying  ?  ' 


DOHA'S  DIART  CONTINUED.  69 

"  '  Yes,  up  there  where  you  sleep.  That  was  Anna'i 
room,  where  she  died,  and  where  Robin  was  born.  T 
didn't  eee  it,  but  them  that  told  me  did.  Richard  fell 
ttfi  flat  as  if  struck  with  lightning  when  he  came  up 
from  the  office  and  heard  what  had  happened,  and  six 
hours  after,  when  they  said  she  was  dyin'  and  had  asked 
for  him,  he  had  to  be  carried,  he  was  so  limpsy  and 
weak.  She  never  noticed  the  child  an  atom,  or  acted  as 
if  there  was  one,  but  woiild  whisper,  '  Forgive, — I  can't 
tell, — I  promised  not.  It's  all  right, — all  right.'  What 
she  meant  nobody  knows,  for  she  died  just  that  way,  with 
Richard's  arm  around  her,  and  the  doctor  a-holdin'  him, 
for  he  was  whiter  than  a  rag,  and  after  she  was  dead 
he  went  into  a  ravin'  fever,  which  lasted  for  weeks 
and  weeks,  till  the  allopaths  give  him  up.  Then  the 
homopaths  come  in  and  cured  him,  and  that's  why 
he  turned  into  a  sugar-pill  doctor.  He  was  one  of  the 
blister  in'  and  jollup  kind  before  his  sickness,  but  after 
that  he  changed,  and  they  do  say  he's  mighty  skilful.  As 
soon  as  he  got  well  the>  .^Id  West  Lawn,  and  Mrs.  West 
has  never  seemed  like  the  same  woman  since.  Folks 
thinks  they's  poor,  though  what's  become  of  the  property 
nobody  knows.  Anyways  the  doctor  supports  his  mother, 
Bendin'  her  money  every  now  and  agen.' 

"  « But  why,'  I  asked, «  did  Mrs.  Randall  and  Bell  Ver 
ner  uaver  hear  of  all  this?  ' 

"  '  Easy  enough,'  was  the  reply.     *  Judge  Verner  onlj 


70  DORA'S  DIARY  CONTINUED. 

moved  here  la*t  fall,  and  Mr.  Randall  last  spring.  West 
Lawn  has  changed  hands  three  times  since  the  doctor 
owned  it ;  so  it's  natural  that  his  name  shovldn't  appe&s 
in  the  sale.  Then,  it's  seven  years  since  it  all  happened, 
and  a  gossiping  place  like  Morrisville,  where  there  are  up 
wards  of  three  thousand  folks,  don't  harp  on  one  string 
forever ;  only  them  that  was  interested,  like  me,  remem 
bers.' 

"This  was  true  in  detail,  and  was  a  good  reason  way 
neither  Bell  nor  Mattie  had  ever  heard  of  Anna  West,  I 
thought,  as  I  dragged  my  steps  homeward,  hardly  knowiug 
when  I  reached  there,  and  feeling  glad  that  Mattie  \*<*s 
still  confined  to  her  bed,  as  this  left  me  free  to  repair  at 
once  to  my  own  room, — Anna's  room, — where  she  ditxl, 
with  her  head  on  Richard's  arm,  and  he  so  weak  that  he 
had  to  be  supported.  Poor  Richard  !  I  do  pity  him 
knowing  now  why  he  so  often  seems  sad.  But  what  v  at 
it  ?  How  is  it,  and  what  makes  my  brain  whirl  so  fa&i  ? 
Anna  said  with  her  dying  breath  that  it  was  all  right, 
and  1  believe  her.  I  will  not  cast  at  her  a  stone.  She  is 
in  heaven  sure ;  yes,  Robin,  sure.  And  Richard  fell  AS 
if  smitten  with  lightning  when  he  heard  of  it  1  That  be 
tokened  innocence  on  his  part.  Then  why  this  horrid 
feeling  ?  Is  it  sorrow  that  he  cared  for  and  loved  her  T 
I  don't  know ;  everything  seems  so  far  off  that  I  cannot 
•find  it.  What  is  the  record  ?  Let  me  see. 

"  Richard  once  lived  here  in  this  grand  house ;  he  ha« 


DORA'S  D1ART  CONTINUES.  71 

met  with  reverses,  nobody  knows  what ;  he  has  a  brother 
somewhere,  nobody  knows  where ;  he  supports  hia 
mother,  and  this  accounts  for  what  I  termed  his  stingi 
ness.  How  I  hate  myself,  and  how  noble  Dr.  West 
would  appear  were  it  not  for, — for, — I  cannot  say  it, — the 
horrible  possibility,  and  I, — I  guess, — I  think, — I  am  very 
sure  I  did  care  for  him  more  than  I  supposed. 

•'  July  23d. 

"  I  have  been  sick  for  many  days,  swallowing  the  big 
gest  doses  of  medicine,  until  it  is  a  wonder  I  did  not  die. 
It  was  a  heavy  cold,  taken  when  sitting  upon  the  com 
mon,  I  heard  Mattie  tell  Bell  Verner  when  she  came  in 
to  ask  after  me,  and  so  I  suppose  it  was,  though  I  am 
sure  my  head  would  never  have  ached  so  hard  if  1  had 
not  heard  that  dreadful  story.  I  have  thought  a  great 
deal  while  Mattie  believed  me  sleeping,  and  the  result  of 
it  is  this :  I  hate  Dr.  West,  and  never  desire  to  see  him 
again  !  There  is  something  wrong,  and  I've  no  faith  in 
anybody. 

"  There's  a  letter  from  Margaret  lying  on  the  table. 
They  are  at  the  Clarendon,  which  is  a  new  hotel,  smaller 
than  either  the  United  States  or  Union  Hall,  but  makes 
up  for  its  size  in  its  freshness,  its  quiet,  and  air  of  home 
like  comfort.  At  least  so  Margaret  says  ;  and  although 
ihe  complains  that  she  does  not  see  so  many  people  as  she 
rould  at  the  larger  houses,  she  seems  contented,  and 


72  DORAS  DIARY  CONTINUED. 

speaks  in  raptures  of  her  nice  large  rooms  and  their  gen 
tleinauly  host.  I  am  glad  she  is  satisfied,  and  thai 
Johnnie,  at  home,  is,  as  he  expresses  it  in  a  letter  just  re 
ceived,  '  as  happy  as  a  clam.' 

"  Accidentally  I  have  heard  that  Rcbin  is  sick  and  has 
sent  for  me.  I  must  have  slept  for  many  hours,  I  think : 
not  a  heavy,  stolid  sleep,  as  I  was  vaguely  conscious  that 
Mattie  stole  in  to  look  at  me,  and  that  Bell  Verner,  too, 
was  here.  But  I  did  not  realize  it  all  until  at  last  I  woke 
and  felt  that  I  was  better.  The  pain  from  the  head  was 
gone,  and  the  soreness  from  the  throat,  leaving  only  a 
pleasant,  tired  feeling  which  I  rather  enjoy. 

"  In  the  other  room  Mattie  and  Bell  were  talking,  as  it 
seemed,  of  me,  for  I  heard  Mattie  say  : 

"  '  I  wonder  if  she  really  does  care  about  him  ?  ' 

<f  *  I  think  she  does,'  was  Bell's  reply,  '  for  I  remember^ 
how  annoyed  she  was  when  your  brother  teased  her  by 
ridiculing  his  peculiarities.     Poor  girl !    I  half  suspect 
this  has  something  to  do  with  her  illness.     Mrs.  Felton 
has  confessed  having  told  her  what  she  knew.' 

"  '  She  has  ?     When  ? '  and  Mattie  seemed  surprised. 

"  '  Why,'  returned  Bell,  '  that  night  I  sat  with  Dora, 
Mrs.  Felton,  you  know,  was  with  me  a  part  of  the  time, 
»nd  once  when  Dora,  in  her  disturbed  sleep,  was  talking, 
ihe  moaned  about  Dr.  West  and  Anna.  "  Poor  lamb, 
•he's  dwellin'  on  the  young  lady  who  died  in  this  very 
room,"  Felton  said;  and  when  I  inquired  what  young 


DORA8  DIARY  CONTINUED.  78 

,  she  told  me  all  she  knew,  and  more  too,  I  think. 
Afterwards  I  asked  Mrs.  Stryker  if  she  ever  heard  of 
Anna  West,  and  she  said,  t{  Oh  yes ;  she  died  just  before 
ne  came  here.  Everybody  was  talking  about  it;  "  and 
then  she  told  her  story,  which,  of  course,  differed  from 
Mrs.  Felton's  about  as  much  as  is  the  difference  in  the 
social  position  of  the  two  women, — Felton  seeing  things 
from  her  stand-point,  and  Mrs.  Stryker  repeating  them 
from  hers.  She  said  Mrs.  West  used  to  give  elegant  par 
ties,  and  Anna  was  always  the  star  of  the  company.  Sh» 
was  so  beautiful  and  attractive  that  young  men  could  not 
help  admiring  her,  while  Richard  loved  her  very  much, 
and  nobody  now  believes — ' 

"  I  covered  up  my  head  at  this  point,  for  I  would  not 
listen  to  any  more.  After  a  little  I  heard  some  one  com 
ing  up  the  stairs,  not  quietly,  soberly,  as  Mattie  and  Bell 
had  come,  but  noisily,  rapidly,  two  steps  at  a  time,  trill 
ing  a  few  notes  from  some  opera,  and  when  the  music 
ran  high,  absolutely  breaking  into  a  clear,  decided  whistle ! 
I  was  amazed,  particularly  as  the  next  moment  Bell 
Verner  said : 

"  *  Hush-sh !  Miss  Freeman's  asleep.  You'll  wake  her 
with  your  boy- ways  ! J 

"  '  1  don't  care  1  "  and  the  whistler  evidently  cut  a  pir- 
ouetto.  *  I'll  try  to  wake  her,  unless  you  tell  me  quick 
*  ho  is  the  handsomest  man  in  town,  the  most  distingue, 
for  1  met  him  just  now  in  the  street,  and  fell  in  love  at 


74  DORAS  D1ASF  CONTINUED. 

<moe !  Tall,  broad-shouldered,  with  brown,  dreamy  eyes, 
and  the  whitest  teeth  1  Tell  me  quick,  Bell!  You 
ought  to  know  every  marriageable  man  between  the  two 
poles,  for  here  you've  been  out  just  as  many  years  as  you 
are  older  than  I  am,  to  wit,  ten.  Say,  who  was  it  ?  * 

"  '  Jessie,  do  be  quiet.  How  do  I  know  ? '  Bell  began 
and  then  I  knew  the  noisy  girl  was  Bell's  young  sister, 
Jessie,  who  had  just  been  graduated  in  Boston,  and  had 
of  course  come  home. 

"  She  was  a  wild,  rattle-brained  creature,  I  was  sure, 
but  her  flow  of  spirits  suited  my  mood,  and  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  seeing  her  I  called  to  Bell,  who,  the  next  mo 
ment,  was  asking  anxiously  what  I  wanted. 

"  *  I  am  better,'  I  said.  '  Am  well ;  and  I  want  you 
to  open  the  blinds  so  I  can  see  ;  then  all  come  in  where  I 
can  hear  you  talk.  Who  is  that  with  the  cheery  whistle  ?  * 

" '  Eureka!  she  thinks  my  whistle  beautiful  ! '  I  heard 
from  the  next  room,  while  Bell  replied : 

"  *  It's  sister  Jessie.  She  came  last  night,  and  has  nearly 
driven  us  wild  already  with  her  fun  and  spirits.  She 
stopped  for  a  few  days  at  Saratoga,  and  saw  your  sister. 
Shall  I  call  her?' 

*'  *  Yes,'  I  said ;  and  Jessie  came  at  once,— a  little  fairy, 
hoydendish  creature,  with  the  sauciest,  merriest  face,  the 
roundest  black  eyes,  and  a  head  covered  with  short) 
black  curls,  which  shook  as  she  talked,  and  kept  time 
with  the  twinkle  of  her  eyes. 


DORAS  DIAH7  CONTINUED.  75 

"  She  kissed  me  heartily,  and  then,  perching  herself  up 
on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  told  me  about  Saratoga, — what  a 
little  paradise  it  was  at  the  Clarendon, — so  clean  and  nise ; 
what  a  splendid  man  the  proprietor  was,  treating  hia 
boarders  as  if  they  were  invited  guests ;  humoring  every 
body's  whim,  even  to  muzzling  the  poor  dog  who  barked 
at  night,  thereby  disturbing  some  nervous  invalid, — told 
me  too  what  a  love  of  a  man  she  thought  Squire  Russell. 

"  *  Mrs.  Russell  is  your  sister,'  she  went  on,  '  and  so 
I  say  nothing  of  her,  pro  nor  con,  except  that  it  must 
be  good  pious  work  to  live  with  her,'  and  the  curls  and 
the  eyes  danced  together. 

"  I  could  not  be  angry,  and  the  gypsy  rattled  on  : 

" '  But  that  Mr.  Russell  is  my  beau-ideal  of  husbands. 
I  made  him  promise  if  he  ever  was  a  widower,  he'd  take 
me  for  his  second  wife.  There's  nothing  I'd  like  better, 
I  told  him,  than  to  mother  his  six  children.  You  ought 
to  have  seen  my  lady  then ! '  and  the  queer,  little  face 
put  on  a  look  so  like  Margaret's  that  I  could  not  fore 
bear  laughing,  knowing,  as  I  did,  how  shocked  my  sister 
must  have  been. 

"  ' "  Husband,"  she  said,  "  I  think  it's  wrong  to  trifle 
vrith  matters  so  sacred !  "  Whereupon  the  husband 
meekly  subsided,  and  fanned  her  connubially  with  the 
Sara  togi  paper.  Oh,  he's  a  splendid  fellow,  but  I  used 
Jo  pity  him  evenings  when  I  saw  him  standing  over  hia 
wife's  chair,  looking  so  wistfully  at  the  dancers.  Sh€ 


76  DORA'S  DIARY  CONTINUED. 

wouldn't  let  him  waltz, — thought  it  was  very  improper^ 
and  I  was  told  made  several  remarks  not  very  compli 
mentary  to  my  style  of  tripping  the  light  fantastic  toe. 
She  is  rather  pretty,  and  one  night  when  she  wore  a  pale 
blue  silk,  with  all  her  diamonds  and  point-lace,  she  was 
the  finest-looking  woman  in  the  room.' 

"  *  She  used  to  be  very  beautiful,'  1  said,  feeling  that 
I  must  defend  her,  'but  she  is  sadly  broken,  and  no 
wonder, — six  children  in  twelve  years ! ' 

" «  Yes,  I  know.  It's  perfectly  dreadful,  but  if  I  had 
forty  children,  I'd  let  my  husband  waltz  and  smoke. 
Oh,  I  forgot,  she  don't  let  him  smoke  if  she  knows  it, 
and  if  by  chance  the  poor  fellow  drew  a  whiff  or  two 
down  in  the  office,  he  had  to  walk  round  the  south-east 
corner  of  the  building  sixteen  times  to  air  himself. 
There's  the  gate, — who's  come? '  and  with  this  she  bounded 
from  the  bed  and  ran  to  the  window  to  reconnoitre. 

"  *  As  I  live,'  she  exclaimed,  drawing  back  from  the 
window,  '  it's  the  very  man  I  told  you  about,  and  he's 
coming  here.' 

"  '  Don't  be  angry  with  her :  she's  a  crazy  child,'  Bell 
whispered,  and  I  had  just  time  to  reply  that  I  was  not 
angry,  when  the  peal  of  the  door-bell  was  distinctly  heard, 
and  Jessie,  by  leaning  over  the  bannisters,  tried  to  hear 
•what  was  said. 

" f  It's  about  you,'  and  she  darted  back  to  my  side, 
1  He  certainly  said  Miss  Freeman.' 


DORA'S  DIAR7  CONTINUED.  77 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  expected  what  followed,  but  my 
breath  came  heavily,  and  I  was  not  surprised  when 
Sarah,  the  maid,  came  up  and  handed  me  a  card  bearing 
the  name  of  Dr.  West.  He  was  in  the  parlor,  and  if  I 
could  not  go  down  he  wished  to  see  Mrs.  Randall.  In 
stantly  Mattie  and  Bell  exchanged  glances,  while  the 
former  said  in  an  aside  : 

" '  Can  it  be  the  child  is  so  sick  they  have  sent  for 
him?' 

" '  What  child  ? '  I  exclaimed.  « Who  is  sick.  Is  it 
Robin?' 

"  '  Yes,'  Mattie  answered,  hurriedly.  *  We  did  not 
think  best  to  tell  you  when  the  message  came,  four 
days  ago.  Robin  West  is  very  sick,  and  keeps  asking 
for  the  lady  who  said  his  mother  was  in  heaven  sure. 
As  you  could  not  go,  I  went  myself,  learning  by  that 
means  many  things  concerning  the  family  which  I  never 
knew  before.  I  liked  Mrs.  West  very  much.  But  what 
shall  I  tell  the  doctor  for  you  ?  ' 

"  I  felt  irritated  and  annoyed  that  Mattie  and  Bell,  and 
so  many,  should  know  and  talk  about  that  story,  and  more 
than  all  I  was  vexed  that  Bell  should  believe  I  cared  for 
the  doctor,  whose  heait  was  buried  in  Anna's  grave,  and 
I  answered  pettishly : 

"  '  You  needn't  tell  him  anything.' 

M  Bell  looked  surprised,  Jessie  whistled,  and  Mattii 
laughed,  as  she  walked  downstairs  to  receive  her  visitor. 


78  DORA'S  DIARY  CONTINUED. 

"  '  I  have  only  known  you  for  half  an  hour,  Miss  Dora 
Freoman,'  Jessie  said,  saucily,  '  but  if  I  am  any  judge 
of  the  genus  female-homo,  you  are  desperately  in  love 
with  that  man,  and  are  jealous  of  somebody.' 

"  Bell  shot  at  her  a  warning  glance,  which  silenced  her 
for  a  'moment,  and  in  the  pause  I  distinctly  caught  the 
tones  of  Dr.  West's  familiar  voice,  though  I  could  dis 
tinguish  nothing  he  said.  He  did  not  stay  long,  and 
the  moment  his  step  was  heard  in  the  hall  Jessie  was  at 
her  post  at  the  window,  ready  to  watch  him  as  he  went 
down  the  walk.  I  think  Bell  wanted  to  look  out,  but 
she  was  far  too  proud,  and  in  spite  of  Jessie's  entreaties 
that  she  would  come  just  for  a  minute  and  say  if  she  ever 
saw  a  more  perfectly  splendid  man,  she  sat  where  she 
was  and  waited  for  Mattie,  who  soon  appeared,  joining 
with  Jessie  in  praises  of  Dr.  West.  The  most  agreeable 
person  she  had  ever  met,  she  said,  and  she  wondered  I 
had  not  told  them  about  him. 

"  I  was  so  unamiable  that  I  would  not  even  ask  when 
he  came  to  Morrisville,  nor  why  he  had  called ;  but  Jes 
sie  asked  for  me,  and  so  I  learned  that  he  arrived  at  hia 
mother's  the  night  previously,  and  in  compliance  with 
Robin's  repeated  request  that  some  one  should  go  for 
iha  lady,  he  had  come  himself.  Robin  was  better,  Mat- 
tie  said,  and  if  no  new  symptoms  appeared  the  doctor 
would  return  to  Beechwood  the  next  day. 

"  All  this  while  I  asked  no  questions  and  volunteered 


DORA'S  DIARY  CONTINUED.  79 

HO  remark,  though  in  my  own  mind  I  resolved  that  so 
soon  as  I  was  able,  I  would  go  to  see  Robin  West.  I 
suppose  1  was  beginning  to  look  tired,  as  Bell  said  they 
were  worrying  me  too  long,  and,  after  some  coaxing  and 
scolding,  she  persuaded  her  sister  to  leave  with  her. 

"  *  Mind,  now,'  Jessie  said  to  me,  as  she  stood  with  her 
hat  poised  on  her  short,  thick  curls,  '  if  you  are  sura 
you  do  not  like  this  doctor,  and  wish  to  be  rid  of  him ; 
I'll  take  him  off  your  hands,  and  thank  you,  too.  I've 
a  great  mind  to  try  the  effect  of  my  charms  upon  him 
shall  I  ?  You  see,  I  am  not  going  to  wait,  like  Bell,  till 
I  verge  upon  the  serioits  yellow  leaf.  I  am  going  to  be 
married.  A.U  revoir  I '  and  whistling  *  Hail  to  the 
Chief,'  she  bounded  down  the  stairs,  three  at  a  time,  I 
verily  believe,  for  I  trembled  lest  she  should  break  her 
ueck,  and  felt  relieved  when  her  gay  laugh  sounded  upon 
the  walk. 

"  The  next  thing  which  I  heard  was  that  Dr.  "West  was 
at  Mr.  Verner's,  prescribing  for  Jessie's  father,  who  had 
been  taken  violently  ill." 


CHAPTER 

JESSIE'S  DIABT. 

JULY  24th. — The  richest  thing  has  happened j 
the  bnst  joke  I  ever  heard  of;  and  I  give  my- 
self  great  credit  for  having  been  the  direct  cause 
of  its  happening  !  If  there  is  any  one  thing  which  father 
hates  more  than  another,  it  is  a  homoeopathic  physician. 

ft  l  Quacks,  humbugs,  impositions,  loggerheads,  igno 
ramuses  1 ' 

"  These  are  very  mild  names  compared  with  what  I've 
heard  him  call  them,  declaring  he  would  show  the  door 
to  the  first  one  who  should  ever  come  round  him  with 
their  two  goblets,  two  spoons,  two  little  plates  for  covers, 
and  one  pill  dissolved  in  a  hogshead  of  water,  half  a  drop 
to  be  taken  once  in  six  hours !  That's  the  way  he  talked, 
submitting  to  any  amount  of  blistering,  bleeding,  drug 
ging,  and  torturing,  and  thinking  it  felt  nice.  But  I've 
played  him  a  trick  which  will  do  him  good  for  the  re 
mainder  of  his  natural  life. 

"  When  I  came  home  last  night  from  Mr.  Randall's,  1 
found  him  groaning,  sweating,  and  almost  swearing  with 
the  colic,  brought  on  by  too  much  fruit  at  dinner,  fol 
tawed  by  two  saucers  of  cream.  He  never  was  in  such 


JESSISTS  DIARY.  81 

pain  in  his  life ;  ne  should  die,  he  knew  he  should ;  and 
somebody  must  go  for  the  doctor.  Of  course  every  ser 
vant  was  out  of  sight  and  hearing,  and  so  I  went  myseli 
for  Dr.  Lincoln,  who  was  off  in  the  country  miles  away, 
and  would  not  be  home  for  hours.  Here  was  a  dilemma  • 
and  as  I  was  wondering  what  to  do  next,  I  saw  that  par 
agon  of  M.D.'s,  Dr.  "West,  coming  down  the  street.  In 
stantly  my  decision  was  made ;  and  looking  as  anxioua 
as  I  could,  I  accosted  him  at  once,  begging  him  to  go  and 
prescribe  for  my  father,  Judge  Verner.  He  looked  at 
me  a  little  curiously,  but  acceded  to  my  request,  and  in 
less  than  five  minutes  I  had  ushered  him  into  the  room, 
where  father  was  enacting  a  round  of  colicky  gymnastics, 
and  where  Bell  looked  up  in  wonder,  actually  starting  to 
her  feet  when  I  introduced  Dr.  West. 

"  *  Dr.  Lincoln  was  gone,  and  I  brought  this  one,'  I 
whispered  to  father,  who  was  in  too  much  pain  to  notice 
particularly,  and  who  thought  it  Dr.  Lincoln's  student. 

"  *  I  shall  need  some  water,  a  spoon,  and  two  goblets,1 
the  doctor  said,  and  I  hastened  to  execute  the  orders, 
watching  father  as  the  stirring  process  went  on,  and  al 
most  screaming  when  he  swallowed  the  first  spoonful. 

"  *  I'm  afraid  it  ain't  strong  enough,  doctor.  It  hasn't 
much  taste,'  he  said,  smacking  his  lips,  as  he  missed  the 
flavor  of  Dr.  Lincoln's  bottles. 

**  *  We'll  see  what  effect  it  has,'  was  the  doctor's  reply ; 
and  in  a  few  moments  down  went  another  drop  of  thf 


82  JE.3SIWB  DIABT. 

sweetened  water ;  then  another,  and  an jther,  until  the 
groaning  and  flouncing  ceased,  and  father  lay  upon  hii 
pillow  as  well-behaved  a  patient  as  cne  would  wish  to 
see. 

"  He  was  very  quiet,  and  after  waiting  half  an  hour  the 
doctor  said  he  did  not  think  he  was  needed  any  longer, 
and  wjuld  leave. 

"  *  Should  the  paroxysms  return,'  he  said  to  Bell,  *  give 
him  six  of  these  pLUs,'  and  he  placed  upon  the  table  a 
tiny  phial,  which  at  once  caught  father's  eye  and  set  him 
to  raving  like  a  madman. 

"'Bell!  Jessie!'  he  gasped,  as  the  gate  closed  after 
the  doctor,  '  who  was  that  chap  ? — what  persuasion,  I 
mean  ?  Was  he  a  rascally — ' 

"  He  was  in  too  great  a  rage  to  say  the  words,  and  so  I 
said  it  for  him, 

" '  He  was  a  homoaopathist,  father.  Didn't  he  help  you 
quick?  You  never  groaned  a  groan  after  the  third 
swallow.' 

"  '  Third  swallow  be — no,  I  won't  swear,  but  I  will  say 
Chunder  and  Mars  ! '  he  roared ;  '  have  I  been  insulted 
in  my  own  house  ?  I  won't  stand  it !  I'll  gag,  I'll 
heave,  I'll  puke,  but  what  I'll  get  rid  of  the  stuff!  Give 
me  water  for  the  colic, — me  ! ' 

" '  But  if  the  water  answered  the  purpose,  why  do  you 
Bare  ?  '  Bell  asked,  and  father  gave  her  a  look  very  like, 
•  Et  to  Brute? 


JESSES  DIARY.  83 

"  He  could  not  deny  that  he  was  better, — that  something 
had  helped  him  •  but  it  wasn't  sweetened  water ;  no  in 
deed  ;  and  I  might  heave  it  out  of  the  window. 

"  I  took  up  the  goblet  to  do  so,  when  he  yelled : 

"  '  Don't  be  a  fool  because  you  made  one  of  me  1  Set 
that  glass  down  and  bring  me  that  phial.' 

"  I  obeyed,  and  he  read  on  the  little  yellowish  paper : 
*  For  Colic.  For  an  adult,  take  six  every  hour.  For 
children  from  two  to  three,  according  to  age.  Prepared 
by  R.  West,  M.D.,  Beechwood.' 

"  He  read  it  aloud  twice,  then  asked,  *  Who  the 

was  R.  West,  M.D.,  and  how  the  plague  came  he  there  ? ' 

"  The  hurricane  was  over,  and  I  ventured  to  explain, 
asking  if  he  were  not  very  gentlemanly  and  pleasant. 

"'He's  well  enough  for  a  fool  /'  he  replied,  declaring 
he  should  have  been  better  without  the  truck  ;  that  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it. 

"  This  morning  I  missed  the  little  phial,  and  when  I 
asked  where  it  was,  father  told  me  to  mind  my  business, 
and  then  I  knew  he  had  it  safe  in  his  vest  pocket,  a  charm 
against  future  attacks  of  colic.  How  Bell  scolded  when 
we  were  alone,  and  how  I  rolled  on  the  floor  and  laughed. 
Bell  is  smitten ;  I  can  see  it  in  her  face  and  manner. 
She  does  nothing  but  think  of  Dr.  West,  who  has  re 
turned  to  Beechwood.  Will  I  ever  see  him  again 9  and 
.  ioes  Dora  Freeman  hate  or  like  him,  which  ?  " 


CHAPTER  IX. 

EXTRACT   FROM   DE.    WEST'S   DIARY. 

"BEECHWOOD,  July. 

DID  not  see  Dora  after  all,  and  I  had  though! 
so  much  about  it,  feeling,  I  am  afraid,  more 
than  willing  that  Robin  should  be  sick,  and  so 
give  me  an  excuse  for  going  to  Morrisville.  Since  re 
ceiving  that  little  note  from  Dora,  I  have  frequently 
dared  to  build  castles  of  what  might  some  day  be,  for 
something  in  that  message  led  me  to  hope  that  I  am  not 
indifferent  to  her.  The  very  fact  that  she  answered  my 
informal  letter  asking  the  loan  of  a  book  would  prove  it 
so,  so  I  sit  and  think  and  wonder  what  the  future  has  in 
store  for  me,  until  my  patients  are  in  danger  of  being  neg 
lected. 

"  Poor  Robin,  I  fear  he  is  not  long  for  this  world,  and 
when  I  remember  how  perfectly  helpless  he  is,  and  must 
always  remain,  I  say  to  myself : 

"  '  It  is  well  that  the  child  should  follow  the  mother, 
•f  indeed,  as  Dora  told  him,  she  is  in  heaven  swre? 

**  Darling  Dora,  I  am  glad  you  told  him  so.  You  hare 
Duo  reason  to  think  otherwise.  Does  Dora  know  how 


EXTRACT  FROM  DR.  WESTS  DIARY.         35 

much  I  once  loved  Anna  ?  I  fancy  not,  and  yet  there 
tre  those  in  Morrisville  who  remember  the  sad  story, 
but  she  is  not  thrown  much  in  their  society.  The 
Randalls  and  Verners  and  Strykers  form  a  circle  into 
which  outsiders  are  not  often  admitted.  I  liked  that 
Mrs.  .Randall,  and  so  did  mother.  How  familiar  the  old 
place  looked  to  me,  and  how  natural  it  seemed  that  1 
should  be  there,  and  Dora  too.  Will  she  ever  be  tha 
mistress  of  my  home?  If  so,  that  home  I  know  will 
not  be  West  Lawn,  but  there  is  still  a  cherished  hope  of 
one  day  redeeming  that  old  homestead  of  which  she  talks 
so  much.  Then,  Dora,  brown-eyed,  brown-haired  Dora, 
your  little  feet  shall  dance  again  apon  the  greensward  and 
your  merry  laugh  awaken  the  echoes  of  the  olden  time. 
Dear  Dora,  I  trust  she  is  not  very  sick,  and  I  wish  I 
could  have  seen  her. 

"  Judge  Verner, — by  what  chance  came  I  in  his  pres 
ence,  and  that  of  his  regal  daughter  Bell  ?  I  suspected 
then  I  was  the  victim  of  a  joke,  perpetrated  by  that 
saucy-looking,  black-eyed  elf,  whom  they  called  Jessie, 
and  now  I  am  sure  of  it,  for  here  this  morning  comes  a 
letter  from  the  judge,  worthy,  I  think,  to  be  preserved 
as  a  curiosity. 

"  *  Mr.  West,'  he  writes,  with  the  Mr.  heavily  under 
scored,  as  if  to  make  it  doubly  evident  that  he  ignored 
the  title  of  Dr.  in  my  case :  *  Enclosed  find  five  dollars 
for  professional  services  rendered  to  self  July  22d.  If 


86         EXTRACT  FROM  DR.   WEST'S  DIARY. 

I  hadn't  had  such  a  confounded  stomach  ache  I  suppose 
I  should  have  marched  you  out-doors  in  double-quick 
time,  as  that  is  what  I've  threatened  to  do  with  all  kinds 
of  quacks  ;  but  I'm  glad  I  didn't,  as  my  remembrance  of 
you  w  that  you  are  a  gentleman,  even  if  you  have  a  soft 
spot  in  the  brain.  Jessie, — that'n  -ny  youngest, — insists 
that  your  spoon  victuals  did  me  good,  and  prides  herself 
on  having  cajoled  you  into  the  house, — but  she  needn't 
tell  me ;  I  know  better.  Bell,  too, — that's  my  eldest, — • 
has  partially  gone  over  to  fhe  enemy,  but  I'll  stick  to  my 
principles.  It's  all  a  piece  of  tomfoolery,  though  if  you'll 
never  breathe  a  word  of  it  to  Bell,  nor  Jessie,  there  if 
something  about  those  paltry  little  pills  in  that  phial  that 
will  stop  the  tallest  kind  of  a  gripe !  I'd  like  to  know 
you  better,  young  man,  and  so  would  my  daughters. 
Come  here  in  the  autumn,  when  the  shooting  is  fine. 
We  have  splendid  woods  for  hunting,  if  you  enjoy  it. 

"  '  Yours  truly, 

"  *  THOMAS  VERNEK.' 

"  This  is  a  judge's  letter,  and  I  rather  like  him  for  it. 
He  is  not  to  be  convinced  in  a  hurry,  but  those  little 
pills  will  do  the  work.  I'd  like  to  know  him  better,  and 
his  daughters  too.  There  was  something  fascinating  in 
that  haughty  Bell's  manner,  while  the  mischievous 
Josaie  attracted  me  at  once.  I  may  some  time  improve 
the  acquaintance  commenced  under  no  very  singular  oir« 
cumstances." 


CHAPTER  X. 

DORA'S  DIARY. 

IT  seems  to  me  a  year  since  I  last  wrote,  tnd  yet 
'tis  only  three  short  weeks.  But  in  that  time 
so  much  has  happened  that  I  scarcely  can  real' 
ize  it  at  all.  Morrisville  was  very  lor  ely  after  the  doctor 
left,  and  but  for  that  wild  Jessie,  who  keeps  one  so  con 
stantly  stirred  up,  I  could  hardly  have  borne  the  loneli 
ness.  She  is  so  full  of  life,  and  she  has  made  me  laugh 
BO  much  as  she  described  her  father's  conversion  to 
homeopathy,  and  then  went  off  into  ecstasies  over  Dr. 
West. 

"  But  there  came  a  day  when  even  the  gleeful  Jessie's 
laugh  was  hushed,  and  her  merry  eyes  were  dim  with 
tears,  as  she  helped  me  array  a  little  crippled  form  for  the 
grave.  Robin  is  dead !  I  can  write  about  it  now,  can 
Bpeak  of  the  darling  composedly,  but  at  first  the  thought 
of  him  brought  a  great  choking  sob,  and  I  could  only 
weep,  so  fast  he  grew  in  my  love  during  the  few  days  I 
watched  over  him.  He  was  worse  I  heard,  and  in  spite 
of  Mattie's  assertion  that  I  was  not  able  to  endure  it,  I 
went  to  see  him.  Nor  was  I  sorry  when  I  met  the  lock 


88  DORA8  DIARY. 

of  love  which  beamed  in  his  soft  blue  eyes,  as  folding  hii 
arms  around  my  neck,  he  said : 

"  *  I  knew  you'd  comg,  for  I  asked  God  would  He  send 
you  to  little  Robin,  and  He  did.  You'll  stay,  too,  won't 
you,  till  Robin's  dead  ?  and  you'll  tell  me  again  of  my 
mother  in  heaven  ? ' 

"  I  might  not  have  stayed  with  him  to  the  last,  but  for  a 
dream  I  had  that  night,  in  which  Anna  came  to  me,  her 
robes  all  white  and  pure  as  are  the  robes  of  the  redeemed, 
a  halo  of  glory  round  her  head,  and  a  look  of  love  in  her 
eyes  as  she  bent  over  me  and  said : 

"  '  There's  a  little  harp  in  heaven  waiting  for  my  boy, 
and  ere  many  days  his  baby  hands  will  sweep  its  goldefc 
strings ;  but  till  that  time  arrives,  he  wants  you,  Dora 
Freeman, — wants  you  to  lead  him  down  into  the  river, 
across  whose  waters  I  shall  wait  to  meet  him.  For 
Richard's  sake,  you'll  go.' 

"  The  beautiful  vision  faded  from  my  view,  and  I  awoke 
from  what  seemed  more  reality  than  a  dream. 

"  «  Not  for  Richard's  sake,'  I  said,  'but  for  Anna's;' 
and  so  next  day  I  went  again  to  where  the  little  sick  boy 
lay,  watching  and  waiting  for  me. 

"  '  I  don't  call  him  Papa  Richard  now/  he  said,  when 
my  wrappings  were  removed,  and  I  sat  down  beside  him. 
'  I  told  him  what  you  said,  that  he  was  not  zay  fathei, 
und  he  told  me,  "  No, Robin,  lam  not,"  to*  'of 


DORAS  DIART.  89 

say  where  papa  was.  Do  you  know,  lady,  is  he  in 
heaven,  too  ? ' 

"  I  could  not  tell,  and  I  tried  to  divert  his  mind  into 
some  other  channel,  getting  him  to  speak  of  Richard,  and, 
vain  girl  that  I  was,  laying  ingenious  snar«s  for  ascer 
taining  if  Richard  had  mentioned  me  when  he  was  home. 

"  '  He  talked  of  "  Dora."  Is  that  you,  and  may  I  call 
you  so  ?  '  Robin  said,  in  reply  to  my  direct  interrogation 
as  to  what  Richard  had  talked  about ;  and  so  after  that  I 
was  Dora  to  the  child,  who  would  scarcely  let  another 
wait  upon  him.  *  You  seem  like  mother.  You'll  stay,' 
he  kept  repeating,  when  Mattie  came  at  nightfall  after 
me. 

"  I  thought  of  Anna  in  my  dream  ;  thought  of  the  little 
golden  harp,  and  stayed,  while  people  talked,  as  people 
will,  wondering  what  kept  me  at  that  child's  sick-bed,  and 
associating  me  at  last  with  Richard,  for  whose  sake  they 
said  I  had  turned  nurse  to  Robin.  This  piece  of  gossip 
proved  the  resurrection  of  the  old  story,  which  was  told 
and  retold  in  a  thousand  different  forms,  until  madcap 
Jessie  Verner  threatened  to  box  the  first  one's  ears 
who  sliould  say  Anna  West  to  her  again.  This  she  told 
me  herself,  watching  with  me  by  Robin,  and  that  was  all 
that  passed  between  us  on  the  subject.  It  seemed  to  be 
tacitly  understood  that  neither  Mattie,  Bell,  nor  herself 
were  to  speak  of  the  story  to  me,  and  they  did  not. 
Somehow  it  would  have  been  a  great  relief  to  know  jus* 


90  DORA' H    DIARY. 

what  they  thougklj,  but  I  would  not  ask,  and  on  thii 
point  surrounded  myself  with  so  strong  a  barrier  of  re 
serve,  that  they  never  tried  to  break  it  down. 

"  Jessie  had  come  to  Mrs.  West's  unsolicited,  and  it  waa! 
strange  how  the  quiet,  sad  woman  opened  her  heart  at  once 
to  receive  the  wild  young  creature,  while  Robin  turned 
to  her  trustingly,  and  whispered  when  she  was  gone  : 

<l  { I  don't  mind — her  seeing  my  feet.  She  laughs  at 
most  everything,  but  she  wouldn't  at  my  poor,  twisted 
toes.' 

"  Precious  Robin  !  I  would  he  could  have  seen  the  gush 
of  tears  with  which  Jessie  baptized  those  twisted  toes 
when  first  the  shrivelled  things  met  her  view  ;  but  he 
was  then  where  the  halt  and  maimed  are  made  whole,  and 
the  feet  which  here  had  never  stepped  a  step  were  tread 
ing  the  golden  streets.  It  was  strange  that  one  so  young 
should  be  so  sensitive  about  his  deformity,  but  he  had 
been  so  from  the  time  he  first  learned  that  he  was  lame, 
and  when,  sitting  in  his  chair  upon  the  lawn,  he  would 
often  ask  his  grandmother  if  she  supposed  the  passers-by 
guessed  that  he  was  not  like  them. 

"  It  is  frequently  the  case  that  a  deformity  of  the  body 
manifests  itself  in  the  expression  of  the  face,  t  at  it  was 
not  so  with  him..  A  more  beautiful  face  I  never  saw,  and 
I  loved  to  watch  it  as  he  lay  sleeping  upon  his  pilloWj 
(rendering  if  the  mother  could  have  been  as  beautiful  as 
the  child,  and  then  speculating  bitterly  upon  the  father, 


DORA'S  DIARY.  91 

<  ru'jjKi  be.  I  had  said  in  my  heart  that  1 
fl:chardv  tut  at  times  I  experienced  a  feeling 
which  I  ovlisti  hatred  for  the  man  whom  Mrs.  West  was 
almost  homly  expecting,  »nd  who,  when  he  came,  found 
me  with  Ht-bin  on  my  lap,  his  head  nestled  upon  my 
bosom,  while  I  sang  to  him  of  the  Heavenly  City,  where 
his  mothe7  waited  for  him. 

"  It  wa<  just  at  the  setting  of  the  sun  that  I  heard  the 
coach  stc  p  before  the  ga*e,  &^A  a  rapid  step  upon  the 
walk.  Jfy  voice  must  have  tremV»led,  for  Robin  unclosed 
his  eyes  as  if  to  ask  the  causo,  br  t  I  hushed  him  gently, 
while  ir  the  adjoining  apartment  »  low  conversation  was 
carried  on  for  twenty  minutes  or  more.  At  last  the 
doctor  started  for  the  room  whore  I  was  sitting,  but  I 
gave  no  sign  of  consciousness  until  he  was  close  beside 
me  and  I  met  the  glance  of  his  eyes, — a  glance  in  which  for 
an  instant  I  fancied  I  read  more  than  a  friendly  interest; 
the  blood  surged  hotly  through  my  veins ;  but  thoughts 
of  Anna,  whom  dying  he  had  kissed,  holding  her  as  I  had 
held  Robin,  froze  it  back  from  my  face,  which  must  have 
turned  very  white,  for  after  his  first  words  of  greeting, 
he  said  to  me, '  I  cannot  thank  you  enough  for  what  you 
have  been  to  mother.  She  has  told  me  of  your  kindness ; 
but  Dora,'  and  his  hand  touched  my  hair  lightly,  *  I  fear 
you  are  overtaxing  your  strength.  You  are  very  pale 
to-night.  Let  me  relieve  you  of  Robin.' 

"  I  was  not  tired,  I  said,  and  my  manner  was  so  chilling 


92  DORA'S  DIARY. 

that  his  hand  slid  from  my  hair,  while  he  began  speak 
ing  to  Robin,  who  only  complained  of  weariness. 

" '  I  am  glad  you  have  come,  Uncle  Richard,'  Robin 
said,  putting  ouu  his  thin  fingers  and  playing  with  .he 
heavy  beard  of  the  doctor,  who  had  knelt  beside  me  the 
better  to  see  the  child.  '  I  call  you  uncle  all  the  time 
because  Dora  wanted  me  to.' 

"  Instantly  our  eyes  met,  and  I  saw  his  face  crimson 
with  emotions  whose  nature  I  could  w?t  guess.  I  only 
knew  they  hardened  me  into  stone,  and  I  was  glad  when 
at  last  Jessie  came  in,  for  she  relieved  me  from  all  neces 
sity  of  talking.  Richard  liked  Jessie ;  her  sprightly 
manner  amused  and  rested  him,  I  could  see,  and  it  madt 
me  half  angry  to  hear  how  merrily  he  laughed  at  her  re 
marks,  even  when  he  knew  that  Robin's  days  were  num 
bered.  How  I  clung  to  that  child,  refusing  to  give  him 
to  the  care  of  Mrs.  West.  He  could  not  lie  \ipon  the 
bed,  and  I  felt  a  kind  of  fierce  pleasure  in  holding  him, 
and  in  knowing  that  Richard  knew  what  I  was  doing  for 
Anna's  child. 

"  Slowly  the  summer  night  darkened  around  us,  and 
the  August  moon  cast  its  beams  across  the  floor,  even  to 
where  I  sat  singing  the  low  lullaby.  And  out  upon  the 
piazza  Dr.  West  and  Jessie  talked  and  laughed  together, 
until  the  sick  boy  whispered  moacingly,  *  It's  very  cold 
and  dark  in  here.  Cover  me  closer,  Dora,  and  light  tb* 
candles  now.' 


DORA8  DIARY.  93 

"I  covered  him  up,  and  saw  upon  his  face  a  shadow, 
whose  import  I  could  not  mistake,  and  half  bitterly,  half 
reproachfully,  I  exclaimed : 

" '  Dr.  West,  if  you  can  spend  the  time,  I  think  Robin 
needs  you.' 

"  He  was  at  my  side  in  an  instant,  and  so  was  Jessie ; 
her  eyes  filling  with  tears  when  she,  too,  saw  and  recog 
nized  the  shadow  which  had  alarmed  me.  Robin  was 
dying !  We  all  knew  it  now,  and  Robin  knew  it,  too, 
and  still  refused  to  leave  me  for  the  arms  which  Richard 
stretched  out  to  him. 

"  '  It's  nicer  here,'  he  said,  and  there  was  a  world  of 
tove  in  the  soft  blue  eyes  as  he  nestled  closer  to  me. 
*  I  guess  I'm  dying.  It's  all  so  dark  and  queer.  Is  it  very 
far  to  heaven,  and  will  I  lose  the  way  ? ' 

"  '  No,  darling,  for  Jesus  will  go  with  you,'  Richard 
answered,  now  pressing  so  close  to  Robin  that  his 
shoulder  touched  mine,  and  I  felt  his  breath  upon  my 
hair. 

"  *  And  I  won't  be  a  cripple  any  more  ?  I'll  walk  in 
heaven,  and  mother's  there  sure?  '  was  the  next  re 
mark,  to  which  there  came  no  response,  except  a  moan 
from  Mrs.  West,  until  I  answered : 

" '  Yes,  sure,  Itobin,  sure.1 

u '  I'll  tell  her  how  good  you  was,  and  how  much  1 
loved  you,  too.  What  shall  I  say  for  you,  Grandma 
West  ?  What  word  shall  I  carry  mother  ? ' 


94  DORAS  DIARY. 

"  Mrs.  "West  was  weeping  bitterly,  with  her  head  upon 
the  pillow,  where  Robin's  had  lain  so  long,  and  when  he 
thus  addressed  her,  she  answered  : 

"  *  Tell  her,  if  you  meet  her,  how  I  mourned  for  her  till 
my  hair  all  turned  white,  and  tell  her  how  if  in  thought 
I  ever  wronged  her,  I  am  so  sorry  now.' 

"  '  I'll  tell  her,'  Robin  whispered ;  '  and  you,  Uncle 
Richard,  what  for  you  ?  ' 

"  The  doctor's  frame  shook,  and  his  face  was  white  as 
ashes  as  he  was  thus  appealed  to  for  a  message  to  the 
dead,  but  he  did  not  speak  until  Robin  twice  repeated, 
'  And  what  for  you  ? ' 

"  Then  with  a  sob,  he  said  : 

"  '  Nothing,  Robin ;  nothing  from  me.' 

"  '  Why !  didn't  you  love  my  mother  ?  '  the  dying  boy 
asked,  the  look  of  surprise  for  a  moment  mastering  the 
look  of  death  upon  his  face. 

" '  Yes,  he  did,'  I  said.  '  He  loved  her  better  than 
his  life.  He  loves  her  still.  Tell  her  so.' 

"  Again  my  eyes  met  those  of  Dr.  West,  but  in  the  ex 
pression  of  his  there  was  something  which  subdued  all 
my  pride,  and  brought  a  rain  of  tears  upon  my  face.  I 
did  not  longer  refuse  to  let  him  take  the  child,  nor  did 
Robin  refuse  to  go  ;  and  I  leaned  back  in  my  chair  sick 
ai:d  faint,  white  that  great  struggle  went  on  between 
(death  and  the  little  life  whose  lamp  had  burued  so 
feebly. 


DORAS  DIARY.  95 

"  It  was  not  long,  but  while  it  lasted  I  knew  that  Rich 
ard  was  praying  softly,  and  that  his  words  were  poothing 
to  the  sufferer,  who  suddenly  exclaimed : 

"  *  I  see  my  mother !  She's  like  the  picture  in  the 
frame !  She's  waiting  for  me  over  there  where  the  banks 
are  so  green !  She  is  in  heaven  sure ;  but  I  don't  see 
my  father  anywhere  1  He  is  not  there  1  Oh,  where  ia 
my  father  ?  ' 

"  That  was  the  last ;  and  two  hours  later,  Robin  lay 
quietly  upon  his  couch,  his  golden  rarls  all  smooth  and 
shining,  just  as  Jessie  had  made  them,  his  blue  eyea 
closed,  his  tiny  hands  folded  upon  his  bosom,  his  poor, 
crippled  feet  hidden  from  curious  sight. 

"  That  night  I  began  to  love  Jessie  Verner,  and  so  I 
fancied  did  Dr.  West.  All  her  levity  was  gone  for  the 
time,  and  in  its  place  there  came  a  tender,  motherly 

manner,  which   brooded   over  and   encircled  all  in  its 

*  -f 

careful  forethought.  Even  Mrs.  West  became  a  very 
child  in  the  hands  of  this  girl  of  eighteen,  while  Richard, 
too,  was  brought  within  her  influence.  He  was  weary 
with  his  long  ride  of  a  hundred  and  thirty  miles,  but  no 
one  save  Jessie  seemed  to  think  of  this.  She  remem 
bered  everything,  and  when  I  would  have  worried  Mrs, 
West  with  questions  as  to  where  Robin's  clothes  were 
kept,  she  hushed  me  gently,  going  about  the  house  in 
t[uest  of  what  was  needed,  with  as  much  assurance  as  if 
the  had  been  the  daughter  instead  of  a  perfect  stranger. 


96  DORA'S  DIART. 

It  was  Jessie  who  made  Richard  lie  upon  the  lounge  in 
the  quiet  sitting-room ;  Jessie  who  arranged  his  pillowa 
for  him,  covering  him  up  with  his  travelling-shawl,  and 
then  brought  him  tea  and  toast  she  herself  had  made, 
and  which  he  so  much  needed  after  his  wearisome  ride. 
I  did  not  marvel  that  he  followed  her  movements  with 
eyes  in  which  I  read,  as  I  believed,  more  than  an  ordinary 
interest ;  while  at  me,  still  keeping  a  useless  watch  by  the 
dead  boy,  he  seldom  glanced.  There  was  a  pang  at  my 
heart  which  I  suppose  was  jealousy,  though  I  did  not  so 
define  it,  and  I  rather  enjoyed  thinking  that  Anna,  and 
Robin,  and  myself,  were  in  some  way  wronged  by  thia 
new  interest  of  Richard's.  I  had  cared  for  Robin  to  the 
last,  but  with  his  life  my  usefulness  had  ceased.  I  was 
not  needed  longer,  I  thought,  and  so  next  morning  I 
went  home,  saying  to  Mrs.  West  and  Richard,  when  they 
asked  if  I  would  soon  be  back : 

"  ( I  shall  attend  the  funeral,  of  course.  There  in  no 
necessity  for  coming  before.  Jessie  will  do  everything.' 

"  Mrs.  "West  did  not  urge  me  to  return,  neither  did 
Richard,  but  he  went  with  me  to  the  gate,  opening  it  for 
me,  ani  then,  standing  a  moment  as  if  there  was  some- 
tiling  he  would  say,  *  You  do  look  tired,  Dora, — more  so 
than  I  thought.  You  are  not  strong  enough  for  all  you 
have  gone  through.  I  think  I  must  prescribe,'  and  he 
Ywk  my  hand  to  feel  the  quickened  pulse.  '  You  are 
feverish,*  he  continued.  '  You  ought  to  rest,  but  w» 


DORAS  D1AR1.  y\ 

shall  miss  you  so  much.  It's  a  comfort  to  know  you  aie 
here' 

"  I  was  very  foolish,  very  nervous,  and  the  tears  started, 
but  I  dashed  them  away,  and  taking  the  offered  medicine, 
answered  back,  *  I  leave  to  Jessie  the  task  of  comforter. 
She  will  do  better  than  I.' 

"  The  next  moment  I  was  walking  rapidly  down  the 
street,  never  looking  back  until  the  corner  was  reached, 
when,  glancing  over  my  shoulder,  I  saw  the  doctor  still 
standing  where  I  had  left  him,  leaning  upon  the  gate.  1 
never  remember  a  time  when  I  was  so  childish,  or  more 
unhappy,  than  I  was  that  day  and  the  following,  which 
last  was  the  day  of  Robin's  funeral.  There  was  no  pa 
rade,  no  display, — only  a  few  friends  and  neighbors,  with 
Jessie,  presiding  genius,  telling  everybody  what  to  do, 
while,  stranger  than  all,  Judge  Verner  himself  was  there 
as  director,  his  carriage  bearing  Mrs.  West  and  Richard 
to  the  grave  where  they  buried  Robin. 

"  There  was  something  in  the  young  man  which  he  liked, 
he  said,  even  if  he  was  a  fool,  and  so  he  had  offered  no 
objections  to  Jessie's  proceedings,  and  was  himself  doing 
what  he  could  for  the  family.  There  was  room  in  the 
carriage  for  four,  and  greatly  to  my  surprise  the  Judge 
whispered  to  me : 

" '  That  chap  they  call  Doctor  wants  you  to  go  with 
them.  He  says,  next  to  his  mother,  the  child  loved  you 

the  best.' 

5 


98  DORA'S  DIART. 

"  I  was  very  faint  for  an  instant,  and  then  shrinking 
back  into  che  corner  I  answered  no,  so  decidedly  that  the 
judge  hastened  away,  repeating  his  ill  success  to  BicharJ, 
who  had  risen,  and  with  his  mother  on  his  arm  was  ad 
vancing  to  the  door.  As  he  passed  me  he  stopped,  and 
reaching  his  hand  said  gently,  c  Dora,  come  with  us ;  for 
Robin's  sake.' 

f<  I  could  not  resist  that  voice,  and  I  went  forward  tak 
ing  his  other  arm,  and  so  out  into  the  yard,  past'  the 
groups  of  people  who  speculated  curiously  as  to  why  Miss 
Freeman  should  go  with  the  chief  mourners.  Behind  us 
came  Mr.  Randall's  carriage,  with  Mattie,  and  Bell,  and 
Jessie,  and  that  in  a  measure  relieved  me  of  my  rather 
awkward  position. 

(( *  Mother,'  Richard  said,  as  we  drew  near  the  cemetery, 
'  it  is  seven  years  to-day  since  Anna  died.  Do  you  re 
member  ? ' 

"  '  Yes,'  she  answered  sadly,  while  I  remembered  that 
seven  years  ago  was  also  to  have  been  his  bridal. 

"  Did  he  think  of  it  as  we  wound  round  the  gravelled 
road,  past  the  willow  and  the  cedar,  past  the  box,  the 
pine,  and  fir,  to  where  Anna  lay  sleeping ?  Did  he  look 
back  with  anguish  and  regret  to  that  other  day,  when, 
with  the  August  sunshine  falling  upon  him  as  it  was  fall 
ing  now,  he  listened  to  the  solemn  words,  'Ashes  to 
ashes,  dust  to  dust,'  and  heard  the  cold  earth  rattle 
down  upon  the  coffin -lid?  Yea,  he  did,  I  was  sure,  and 


DORAS  DIARY.  99 

this  was  Wiiat  blanched  his  cheeks  so  white  and  made  hu 
lips  qurver  so,  as  we  returned  to  the  carriage  and  were 
driven  from  the  yard,  leaving  Anna  and  "Robin  there  alone. 

"  That  afternoon  I  was  restless  and  wretched.  I  could 
not  remain  quietly  in  any  place,  but  wandered  uneasDy 
about  until  near  nightfall,  when  I  stole  out  unobserved 
and  took  my  way  to  the  burying-ground,  where  Anna 
and  Robin  were.  Just  outside  the  iron  railing  which  en 
closed  their  graves  there  was  a  rude,  time-worn  seat, 
placed  upon  the  grass-plat  years  ago,  it  would  seem,  from 
the  names  and  dates  carved  upon  it.  Here  I  sat  down, 
and  leaning  my  face  upon  my  hand,  tried  to  think  of  all 
that  had  transpired  since  I  had  come  to  Morrisville. 
Had  I  known  all  I  was  to  see  and  hear,  would  I  have 
wished  to  come?  I  asked  myself;  but  could  find  no  satis 
factory  answer.  I  was  glad  I  had  known  Robin,  for  hia 
memory  would  be  a  sacred  thing  to  me,  and  I  said  I  waa 
glad  I  had  heard  of  Anna  ere  I  learned  to  think  too 
much  of  Richard.  Then  thoughts  of  Jessie  arose,  and  I 
said  aloud,  '  Can  he  ever  forget  Anna,  who  died  in  his 
arms?' 

"  '  No,  Dora,  I  shall  never  forget  her,  neither  can  I 
mourn  for  her  always,  as  I  mourned  when  we  first  laid 
ner  here,  and  I  sat  nearly  all  the  night  just  where  you 
are  sitting,  watching  the  stars  as  they  held  their  first  vigil 
over  Anna's  grave,  and  almost  impiously  questioning 
the  Providence  which  had  dealt  so  strangely  with  me.' 


100  DORA'S  DIARY. 

"  I  knew  it  was  Richard's  voice  speaking  to  me,  and  1 
gave  a  little  start  of  surprise,  but  did  not  lose  a  word 
which  he  had  spoken. 

'".I  half  believed  I  should  find  you  here,'  he  said,  sit 
ting  down  beside  me,  and  drawing  a  little  more  about  mj 
neck  the  shawl  which  had  fallen  off.  '  Something  told 
me  I  should  find  you,  and  so  I  came  quite  as  much  to 
join  the  living  as  the  dead.  Dora,  you  will  forgive  the 
familiarity, — I  never  called  you  so  at  home,  but  here, 
where  you  have  done  me  and  mine  so  much  good,  you 
«dll  surely  let  me  use  a  name  which  mother  and  Robin 
adopted.' 

"  I  bowed,  and  he  went  on. 

" '  You  do  not  know  how  glad  I  am  that  you  were  with 
us  when  Robin  died,  or  how  it  lessens  the  smart  to  have 
you  sitting  with  me  in  sight  of  Robin's  grave.' 

"  '  And  Anna's  ?  '  I  said,  looking  at  him  for  the  first 
time. 

"  *  Yes,  Anna's,'  he  continued  in  the  same  kind  tone ; 
'  and  it  is  of  her  I  would  tell  you,  Dora,'  and  he  spoke 
hurriedly  now.  c  How  much  do  you  know  of  Anna,  and 
who  told  you  ? ' 

" '  Sarah  Felton ;  and  I  know  more  than  I  wish  I  did,1 
I  answered,  my  voice  full  of  tears,  which  I  could  not  re 
press. 

"  '  Felton ! '  he  repeated  in  dismay.  *  Unless  her  rep 
utation  for  veracity  has  improved,  I  would  not  vouch  fot 


DORA'S   DlAJiY.  101 

the  truth  of  what  she  might  39,7,  though  she  liked  Anna. 
Shall  I  tell  you  her  history,  Dora  ?  J 

"  I  knew  it  would  cost  him  a  mighty  effort  to  do  so,  but 
I  must  hear  the  story.  I  should  neyer  be  happy  till  1 
had,  and  I  answered  eagerly  : 

" « Yes,  tell  me  of  Anna.' 


CHAPTER  XL 

BICHARD'S  STOKY. 

|E  was  very  white,  and  Ms  voice  trembled,  while 
his  eyes  had  in  them  the  far-off  look  I  had  once 
or  twice  observed  before. 

"  '  There  are  some  things  in  our  family  history,'  he  be 
gan,  '  which  I  shall  omit,  as  they  have  nothing  in  partic 
ular  to  do  with  Anna  and  myself.  For  instance,  you 
know,  perhaps,  that  we  once  lived  at  West  Lawn  in  differ 
ent  circumstances  from  what  mother  is  living  in  now,  and 
that  we  suddenly  sold  the  place,  purchasing  a  smaller  one, 
and  living  in  a  cheaper,  plainer  way.  Why  we  did  this  1 
need  not  say,  except  that  Anna  was  in  no  way  connected 
with  it. 

"  '  She  was  my  adopted  sister ;  and  she  came  to  us  when 
inly  six  years  old.  I  was  twelve,  as  was  my  twin-brother 
Robert.  He  went  from  us  years  ago,  and  has  never  been 
heard  from  since.  We  fear  he  is  dead,  and  the  uncer 
tainty  is  killing  my  mother.  I  shall  soon  be  all  alone. 
But  I  was  telling  you  of  Anna,  who  grew  so  fast  into  our 
hearts,  my  brother  and  I  quarrelling  for  the  honor  ot 
drawing  her  to  school.  This  was  in  her  childhood,  but  at 
she  grew  older  Robert  professed  to  care  less  for  her  th*-n 


RICHARD'S  STORY.  103 

I.  "  She  was  a  doll-baby,"  he  said  ;  <£  a  compound  of  red 
and  white,  and  yellow  curls."  He  would  not  even  ac 
knowledge  that  she  was  beautiful,  but  said  she  could  not 
compare  with  the  maidens  of  New  York,  where  he  went 
to  live  when  Anna  was  fourteen  and  we  were  twenty. 
His  coldness  troubled  me  at  first,  but  when  I  came  to 
think  of  her  as  something  dearer  than  a  sister,  I  was 
glad  that  he  so  seldom  came  to  Morrisville,  for  lie  was  far 
finer-looking  than  I  am.  Put  us  side  by  side,  and  nine 
teen  out  of  twenty  would  have  given  him  the  preference. 
But  he  did  not  care  for  Anna,  and  when  she  was  sixteen 
I  asked  her  to  be  my  wife.  It  was  here,  too,  Dora,  on 
this  very  bench,  where  you  are  sitting  with  me,  and  it 
was  eleven  years  ago  this  very  day. 

"  *  Something  most  always  happens  to  me  on  this  day— 
something  which  leaves  its  impress  on  my  mind.     One 
year  ago  we  went  to  that  picnic  by  the  lake.     Do  you  re 
member  it,  Dora  ? ' 

"  '  Yes,"  I  gasped,  while  my  cheeks  burned  painfully. 
c  Yes,  but  go  on  with  Anna.' 

"  He  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then  continued  : 

"  *  We  were  in  the  habit  of  coming  here  to  sit,  she  little 
dreaming  how  near  we  were  to  the  spot  of  earth  where 
ahe  would  ere  long  be  lying.  I  have  told  you  that  I  asked 
her  to  be  my  wife,  but  I  have  not  told  you  how  much  I 
loved  her,  for  I  did — oh,  so  much,  so  much !  And  she 
was  worthy  of  my  love.  Whatever  happened  afterward 


104  RICHARD'S  STORY. 

she  was  worthy  then.  You  have  seen  her  picture,  II 
hardly  does  her  justice,  for  no  artist  can  ever  give  a  cor 
rect  idea  of  what  that  face  was  when  lighted  up  with  life, 
and  health,  and  love.  I  have  never  seen  a  face  one-half 
as  beautiful  as  Anna's.  She  knew  that  she  was  beautiful, 
but  it  did  not  make  her  vain,  for  she  knew  that  God  had 
given  her  the  dangerous  gift  of  beauty,  and  she  tried  to 
keep  His  gift  unsullied,  just  as  she  tried  to  keep  her  heart 
pure  in  His  sight.  I  cannot  think  of  a  single  fault  she 
had  unless  it  were  that  she  sometimes  lacked  decision,  and 
was  too  easily  swayed  by  those  in  whom  she  had  confi 
dence.  But  in  all  essential  points  she  was  right,  serving 
God  with  her  whole  soul,  and  dedicating  herself  early  to 
His  service.' 

(< '  Then  why,'  I  exclaimed,  '  when  Robin  asked  if  she 
was  in  heaven  sure,  why  did  you  hesitate  to  tell  him 
yes?' 

"A  look  of  pain  contracted  his  features  as  he  re 
plied: 

" '  I  am  speaking  of  Anna  as  she  was  when  I  asked  her 
to  be  my  wife.  We  read  of  angels  falling, — then  why  not 
a  mortal  man  ?  though  Heaven  knows  that  I  cannot  fully 
believe  that  Anna  fell.  I  could  not  live  if  I  believed  it. 
Mother's  religious  creed  and  mine  differ  in  one  point, 
although  we  profess  the  same  holy  faith.  To  me  a  child 
of  God  is  a  child  forever,  just  as  no  act  of  mine  can  make 
uw*  cease  to  be  my  mother's  son.  But  to  go  on.  I  loved 


RICHARD'S  STORY.  105 

her  with  my  whole  soul,  and  I  told  her  so,  while  for  a 
moment  she  made  no  reply,  except  to  lay  her  head  upon 
my  arm  and  weep.  Then  lifting  up  her  eyes  she  said  sh« 
was  too  young  to  know  her  own  mind  yet ;  that  she  loved 
me,  and  always  had, — like  a  brother  at  first,  but  latterly 
in  a  different  way,  and  if  I  would  not  require  her  to  be 
my  wife  at  once,  and  would  promise  to  release  her  should 
she  ever  come  to  think  that  she  could  not  be  mine,  she 
would  answer  yes.  And  so  we  were  engaged. 

"  '  After  that  I  seemed  to  tread  on  air,  so  happy  and  so 
full  of  anticipation  was  my  whole  being.  I  had  been 
graduated  the  previous  year,  and  I  was  then  a  student  in 
Dr.  Lincoln's  office,  but  I  boarded  at  \orne,  and  saw 
Anna  every  day,  counting  the  hours  from  the  time  I  left 
her  in  the  morning  until  I  returned  late  in  the  afternoon 
to  our  fashionable  dinner,  for  we  observed  such  matters 
then.  I  shut  my  eyes  at  times,  and  those  days  come  back 
again,  bringing  with  them  Anna  as  she  used  ta  look  when 
she  came  out  to  meet  me,  her  curls  falling  abor.t  her  child 
ish  face,  and  her  white  robes  giving  her  the  look  of  an 
angel.  I  loved  her  too  much.  I  almost  p]  *ced  her  be 
fore  Him  who  has  declared  He  will  have  nc  idols  there, 
and  so  I  was  terribly  punished.  We  were  to  be  married 
on  her  twentieth  birthday,  and  until  about  a  year  previous 
to  that  time  I  had  not  the  shadow  of  a  euspicion  that 
Anna's  love  was  not  wholly  my  own.  I  well  remember 
the  time,  a  dreary,  rainy  autumn  day,  when  she  cam* 


106  RICHARD'S  STUR7. 

nto  my  room,  and  leaning  one  hand  on  my  shoulder, 
parted  my  hair  with  the  other,  as  she  was  wont  to  do. 

"  *  "  Richard,"  she  began,  "  isn't  it  just  as  wicked  to  act 
a  lie  as  it  is  to  tell  one  ?  " 

"  *  "  I  supposed  it  was,"  I  said,  and  she  continued : 

K  <  «  Then  you  won't  be  angry  when  I  tell  you  what  I 
must,  I  was  very  young  when  I  promised  to  be  your 
wife,  and  I  am  afraid  I  did  not  quite  know  what  I  was 
doing.  I  love  you  dearly,  Richard,  but  you  seem  more 
like  my  brother ;  and,  Richard,  don't  turn  so  white  and 
tremble  so, — I  shall  marry  you  if  you  wish  it ;  but  please 
don't,  oh !  don't—" 

" '  She  was  weeping  bitterly  now, — was  on  her  knees 
before  me,  my  Anna,  my  promised  wife.  I  had  thought 
her  low-spirited  for  some  days,  but  had  no  thought  of 
this,  and  the  shock  was  a  terrible  one.  I  could  not, 
however,  see  her  so  disturbed,  when  I  had  the  power  to 
relieve  her,  and  after  talking  with  her  calmly,  dispassion 
ately,  I  released  her  from  the  engagement  and  she  was 
free.  I  did  not  even  hint  at  the  possibility  of  her  learn 
ing  to  love  me  in  time,  because  I  fancied  she  would  be 
more  apt  to  do  so  if  wholly  untrammelled ;  but  that  hope 
alone  kept  my  heart  from  breaking  during  the  wretched 
weeks  which  followed,,  and  in  which  Anna's  health 
seemed  failing,  and  her  low  spirits  to  increase.  A 
change  of  air  was  proposed,  and  she  was  ssnt  to  Boston, 
irhere  my  mother  has  relatives.  It  waa  on  the  eve  at 


STORY.  107 


the  new  year  when  she  came  back  to  us,  with  a 
scared  look  upon  her  face,  which  became  at  last  habitual, 
making  it  painful  to  look  at  her,  she  appeared  so  nervouf 
and  frightened.  It  was  as  if  some  great  terror  were 
continually  haunting  her,  or  some  mighty  secret,  which 
it  was  death  to  divulge  and  worse  than  death  to  cover 
up.  I  supposed  it  to  be  a  fear  of  what  I  might  require 
of  her,  and  so  I  said  to  her  one  day  that  if  the  thing 
preying  upon  her  mind  was  a  dread  lest  I  should  seek  to 
make  her  my  wife,  she  might  put  that  aside,  as  I  should 
not  annoy  her  in  that  way. 

"  '  Never  to  my  last  hour  shall  I  forget  the  look  in  her 
eyes,  —  a  look  so  full  of  anguish  and  remorse,  that  I 
turned  away,  for  I  could  not  meet  it. 

"  '  "  O,  Richard,"  she  moaned,  drawing  back  so  I  could 
not  touch  her,  "you  don't  know  how  wretched  I  am. 
It  almost  seems  as  if  God  had  forgotten  that  I  did  try  to 
serve  Him,  Richard.  What  is  the  unpardonable  sin? 
Is  it  to  deceive  ?  " 

"  *  I  thought  she  referred  to  her  relations  with  me,  and 
I  tried  to  soothe  her  agitation,  telling  her  she  had  not 
deceived  me  ;  that  she  had  told  me  frankly  how  she  felt  ; 
that  she  was  wholly  truthful  and  blameless. 

"'With  a  cry  which  smote  cruelly  on  my  ear,  she 
exclaimed  : 

"  (  «  jj0j  no>  yOU  kjji  me  i     Don't  talk  so  I     I  am  not 

blameless  ;  but,  oh  1  T  don't  know  what  to  do  !     Tell  me, 


108  RiaHAR&B  STOUT. 

Richard,  tell  me,  which  is  worse,  to  deceive,  or  break  a 
solemn  vow  ?  " 

"  '  I  had  no  idea  what  she  meant,  and  without  directly 
answering  her  questions  I  tried  to  quiet  her,  but  it  waa 
a  useless  fcisk.  She  only  wrung  her  hands  and  sobbed 
more  passionately,  saying  God  had  cast  her  off,  and  she 
was  lost  forever.  This  seemed  to  be  the  burden  of  her 
grief  for  many  days,  and  then  she  settled  down  iato  a 
stony  calm,  more  terrible  than  her  stormy  mood  had 
been,  because  it  was  more  hopeless.  She  did  not  talk  to 
us  now  except  to  answer  questions  in  monosyllables,  and 
would  sit  all  day  by  the  window  of  her  ehambe^  looking 
afar  off  as  if  in  quest  of  some  one  who  never  came. 

"We  thought  when  she  came  home  that  we  had  as 
much  as  we  could  bear,  for  a  domestic  calamity  bad  over 
taken  us,  involving  both  ruin  and  disgrace,  unless  it 
were  promptly  met;  but  in  our  concern  for  Anna,  we 
forgot  the  other  trouble,  else  we  had  fainted  beneath  the 
rod.  At  last  the  asylum  was  recommended,  and  the  first 
of  March  we  carried  her  there,  taking  every  precaution 
that  her  treatment  should  be  the  kindest  and  most  con 
siderate.' 

"  *  How  long  ago  was  that  ? '  I  asked,  starting  sud 
denly,  as  a  memory  of  the  past  swept  over  me. 

"  '  Seven  years,'  he  replied,  and  I  continued : 

"  *  Was  it  in  Utica?  If  so,  I  must  have  seen  Lcr,  fo* 
•even  years  this  summer  Mrs.  Randall  and  I  visited  a 


RICRA1W8  STORY.  109 

schoolmate  in  Utica,  and  one  day  we  went  from  curiosity 
to  the  lunatic  asylum,  but  I  did  not  see  a  face  like  Anna** 
in  the  portrait.  Oh  yes,'  and  I  started  again,  *  I  re 
member  now  a  young  girl  with  the  most  beautiful  golden 
hair,  but  her  face  was  resting  on  the  window-sill,  and 
she  would  neither  look  up  nor  answer  my  questions, — 
that  was  Anna,'  and  in  my  excitement  I  could  scarcely 
control  myself  to  listen,  while  Richard  continued : 

"  '  It  is  possible,  and  seems  like  her,  as  she  would  not 
answer  any  one. 

" '  Every  two  weeks  mother  and  I  visited  her,  but  after 
the  first  time  she  never  spoke  to  us,  but  tried  to  hide 
away  where  we  could  not  see  her.  She  gave  them  no 
trouble  whatever,  as  she  seldom  left  her  chair  by  the 
window,  where  she  sat  the  live-long  day,  looking  west 
ward,  just  as  she  did  at  home.  She  had  written  one 
letter,  they  said,  and  when  we  asked  to  whom,  the 
matron  could  only  remember  that  she  believed  it  was  to 
California,  adding  that  the  attendant  who  then  took  the 
letters  to  the  office  had  sickened  since  and  died.  It  was 
to*iome  imaginary  person,  no  doubt,  she  said,  and  so 
that  subject  was  dismissed  by  my  mother,  but  I  could 
not  so  soon  forget  it,  and  when  next  I  visited  hf,  I  saiq 
abruptly : 

" ' <{  Anna,  what  correspondent    have  yon  in  Cali 
fornia?" 

M  *  Instantly  her  face  was  pallid  with  fear,  ai\i  she  fell 


HO  R2C&AIW\3  UTOHY. 

at  my  feet  senseless.  This  was  a  mystery  upon  which 
I  dwelt  day  and  night,  finding  no  solution  whatever  to 
it,  and  forgetting  it  at  last  as  the  terrible  tragedy  drew 
to  a  close. 

" t  Late  in  July  mother  went  again  to  visit  Anna,  and 
when  she  returned  her  hair  was  almost  as  white  as  you 
now  see  it,  while  her  whole  appearance  was  indicative  of 
some  great,  crushing  sorrow  which  had  fallen  suddenly 
upon  her.  Anna  had  asked  to  be  taken  home,  she  said, 
— had  fallen  on  her  knees,  and  clasping  her  dress  had 
kissed  it  abjectly,  crying  piteously,  "Home,  mother; 
take  poor  Anna  home ;  let  her  die  there." 

" '  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  spoken  to  us  in  months, 
and  we  could  not  refuse.  So  she  came, — the  seventh  day 
of  August, — travelling  by  railroad  to  the  station,  and 
coming  the  remainder  of  the  way  in  our  carriage.  Her 
last  fancy  was  that  she  could  not  walk,  and  I  met  her  at 
our  gate,  carrying  her  into  the  house — and  upstairs  to  her 
old  room,  which  had  been  made  ready  for  her.  As  I 
laid  her  upon  the  bed,  she  clasped  her  arms  tightly 
round  my  neck,  and  whispered,  "  God  has  forgiven  me, 
Richard,  will  you  ?  " 

"  '  I  kissed  her,  and  then  went  down  to  mother,  who 
needed  my  services  more  than  Anna,  and  who  lay  all 
that  evening  on  the  lounge  as  white  and  rigid  as  stone. 
The  next  day  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  Anna,  and  hope  whis 
pered  that  she  was  getting  better.  The  scared,  wild 


RICHARD' &  STORY.  HI 

look  was  gone,  and  a  bright,  beautiful  color  burned 
upon  her  cheeks.  Her  hair,  which  had  been  cut,  wai 
growing  out  again  more  luxuriant  than  ever,  and  curled 
in  short  ringlets  about  her  head.  She  talked  a  little, 
too,  asking  if  we  had  ever  heard  from  Robert,  and  bid 
ding  me  tell  him,  when  he  came  back,  that  she  spoka 
kindly  of  him  before  she  died.  This  was  the  eighth. 
The  next  day  was  her  birth -day,  the  one  fixed  upon  foi 
our  bridal.  I  do  not  know  if  she  remembered  it,  but  I 
thought  of  nothing  else  as  the  warm,  still  hours  glided 
tj,  askut  to  myself  I  said  it  may  be  some  other  day. 
Anna  is  better.  Anna  will  get  well.  Alas !  I  little 
dreamed  of  the  scathing  blow  in  store  for  me ;  th« 
frightful  storm  which  was  to  rage  so  fiercely  round  me, 
and  whose  approach  was  heralded  by  the  arrival  of  Dr. 
Lincoln,  who  had  been  there  before,  holding  private  con 
sultations  with  my  mother,  and  looking,  when  he  came 
from  them,  stern,  perplexed,  mysterious,  and  sorry. 

"  '  Dora,  you  know  what  all  this  portended,  but  you 
do  not  know,  neither  can  you  begin  to  guess,  how  heavy, 
— how  full  of  agony  was  the  blow  which  awaited  me, 
when  just  at  nightfall  I  came  up  from  the  office  where  I 
had  been  for  several  hours.  "  Anna  was  dying."  Thia 
was  the  message  which  greeted  me  in  the  hall,  and  like 
lightning  I  fled  up  the  stairs,  meeting  on  the  upper  land 
ing  with  my  mother,  who  had  grown  old  twenty  yean 
tinoe  morning. 


112  RICHARD'S  STORY. 

ttf«  Richard,  my  boy,  my  poor  boy,  can  you  bear  it? 
have  they  told  you  ?  do  you  know  ?  " 

ii  i  (i  Yes,"  I  said,  "Anna  is  dying.  I  must  see  her ;  let 
me  go,"  and  I  tore  away  from  the  hands  which  would 
have  held  me  back  until  I  was  to  some  extent  prepared. 

" '  I  did  not  heed  her  voice,  for  through  the  half-closed 
door  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Anna.  She  saw  me,  too,  and 
her  hand  was  beckoning.  I  was  half-way  across  the 
room,  when  a  sound  met  my  ear  which  took  all  con 
sciousness  away,  and  for  the  next  three  hours  I  was  in 
sensible  to  pain.  Then  came  the  horrid  waking,  but  the 
blow  had  stunned  me  so,  I  neither  felt  nor  realized  as  I 
did  afterwards.  I  went  straight  to  Anna,  for  she  waa 
asking  for  me,  she  from  whom  the  rest  stood  aloof  as 
from  a  polluted  thing.  Through  all  the  horror  she  had 
never  spoken  a  word,  or  made  the  slightest  sound,  and 
this  suppression  of  feeling  was  hastening  her  end.  Noth 
ing  but  the  words,  "  Tell  Richard  to  come,"  had  passed 
her  lips  since,  and  when  I  went  to  her  she  could  only 
-vhisper  faintly,  "Forgive  me,  Richard.  It's  all  right, 
but  I  promised  not  to  tell.  It's  right,  it's  right."  Then 
she  continued,  entreatingly,  "  Let  me  lay  my  head  on  your 
arm  as  it  used  to  lie,  and  kiss  me  once  in  token  of  for 
giveness." 

"  'Dora,  you  are  a  woman,  and  women  judge  their  sex 
more  harshly  than  we  do,  but  you  would  not  have  had 
me  refuse  that  dying  request  ? ' 


RICHARD'S  STORY.  113 

u  1 1  should  hate  you  if  you  had,'  I  sot/bed,  while  ha 
continued : 

*' '  Mother  made  a  motion  of  dissent.  She  was  casting  a 
•tone,  but  I  did  not  heed  her.  I  lifted  Anna  up  ;  I  held 
her  on  my  bosom ;  I  pushed  away  the  clustering  curls ; 
I  kissed  the  quivering  lips  sueing  for  forgiveness  and  as 
suring  me  all  was  right.  I  forgave  her  then  and  there 
as  I  hoped  to  be  forgiven  ;  I  said  I  would  care  for  her 
baby ;  I  received  her  last  injunction ;  I  kept  her  in  my 
arms  until  the  last  fleeting  breath  went  out,  and  when  I 
laid  her  back  upon  the  pillow  she  was  dead  ! 

"  '  Death  wipes  out  many  a  stain,  and  Anna,  by  her 
dying,  threw  over  the  past  a  veil  of  charity,  which  only 
a  few  of  the  coarser,  unfeeling  ones  ever  tried  to  rend. 
There  was  gossip  and  talk,  and  wonder,  and  pity,  and 
surmise,  and  something  suspicious  thrown  upon  me,  the 
more  readily  as  people  generally  did  not  know  that  our 
engagement  had  been  broken;  but  I  outlived  it  all,  and 
when,  three  months  after  Anna  died,  I  rose  from  a  sick 
bed,  and  went  forth  among  people  again,  they  gave  me 
only  sympathy  and  friendly  words,  never  mentioning 
either  Anna  or  Robin  in  my  presence. 

"  *  During  that  sickness,  my  opinion  with  regard  to  the 
practice  of  medicine  underwent  a  change,  and  greatly 
to  the  horror  of  good  old  Dr.  Lincoln,  with  whom  I 
VtudJed,  I  became  a  homoeopathist.  This  furnished  ma 
an  excuse  for  leaving  Morrisville,  as  I  wished  be 


U4:  RICHARDS  STOR7. 

investigate  that  mode  of  treatment,  and  gain  every  posst 
ble  information  from  physicians  whom  I  knew  to  be  in 
telligent  and  thorough.  I  went  first  to  New  York,  and 
after  a  few  months  commenced  my  new  practice  in 
Boston;  thence,  as  you  know,  I  went  to  Beech  wood. 
Once  I  hoped  mother  might  be  persuaded  to  go  with  me, 
but  she  said : 

"  (  "  I  would  rather  stay  here,  where  people  know  all 
about  it.  I  could  not  bear  to  be  questioned  concerning 
Robin." 

"  *  Women  are  different  from  men ;  it  takes  them  longer 
to  rise  above  anything  like  disgrace,  aud  mother  has 
never  been  what  she  was  before  Anna's  death.  She  came 
in  time  to  love  Robin  dearly,  but  his  misfortune  added 
to  her  grief,  until  her  cup  seemed  more  than  full.  Her 
health  is  failing  rapidly,  and  a  change  of  place  is  neces 
sary.  For  a  long  time  past  I  have  had  it  in  my  mind  to 
sell  the  cottage  and  take  mother  to  Beechwood.  A  friend 
of  mine  stands  ready  to  purchase  at  any  time.  I  saw 
him  two  hours  since,  and  to-morrow  the  papers  will  be 
drawn  which  will  deprive  us  of  our  home.' 

" '  And  your  mother ! '  I  exclaimed,  '  will  she  go  to 
Beechwood  ? ' 

"  '  Not  at  present.  Not  until  she  is  better,  Dora.  I 
am  going  with  mother  to  California  as  soon  as  I  can 
Arrange  my  affairs  at  home.  I  may  not  return  for  a  long 
time,  certainly  not  for  a  year.' 


RWHARIfS  STOR7.  115 

"  There  was  a  tremulousness  in  the  tone  of  his  voice  M 
he  told  me  this,  while  to  me  the  world  seemed  changed* 
and  I  felt  how  desolate  his  going  would  leave  me.  Still 
I  made  no  comment,  and  after  a  moment  he  continued  : 

"  '  And  now,  Dora,  comes  the  part  which  to  me  is  most 
important  of  all.  Men  do  not  often  lay  bare  their  se 
crets  except  to  one  they  love !  It  has  cost  me  a  great 
effort  to  go  over  the  past,  and  talk  to  you  of  Anna,  bui 
I  felt  that  I  must  do  it.  I  must  tell  you  that  the  heart 
I  would  offer  you  has  on  its  surface  a  scar,  but,  Dora, 
only  a  scar ;  believe  me,  only  a  scar.  It  does  not  quicken 
now  one  pulse  the  faster  when  I  remember  Anna,  who  was 
to  have  been  my  wife.  I  loved  her.  I  lost  her ;  and  were 
she  back  just  as  she  used  to  be,  and  I  knew  you  as  I 
know  you  now,  I  should  give  you  the  preference.  You 
are  not  as  beautiful  as  Anna,  but  you  are  better  suited 
to  my  taste, — you  better  meet  the  requirements  of  my 
maturer  manhood.  I  cannot  tell  when  my  love  for  you 
began.  I  was  interested  in  you  from  the  first.  I  have 
watched  and  pitied  you  these  four  years,  wishing  often 
that  I  could  lighten  the  load  you  bore  so  uncomplainingly, 
and  when  you  came  away  this  time,  life  was  so  dreary 
and  monotonous  that  I  said  to  myself,  "  Whether  Dora 
hears  of  Anna  or  not,  I'll  tell  her  when  she  returns,  and 
ask  her  to  be  my  wife."  At  first  I  was  a  very  coward  id 
the  matter,  and  cautioned  mother  against  revealing  any 
thing,  but  afterward  thought  differently.  If  you  are  tc 


116  RICHARDS  STORY. 

be  mine,  there  should  be  no  concealments  of  that  nature, 
and  so  I  have  told  you  all,  giving  you  leave  to  repeat  it 
if  you  please.  There  is  one  person  whom  I  would  par 
ticularly  like  to  know  it,  and  that  is  Jessie  Verner.' 

"The  mention  of  that  name  was  xtnfortunate,  for  it 
roused  the  demon  of  jealousy,  and  when  he  continued : 

"  '  Dora,  will  you  be  my  wife  ?  Will  you  give  me  a 
right  to  think  of  and  love  you  during  the  time  I  am  ab 
sent?' 

"  I  answered  pettishly : 

"  '  If  I  say  no,  would  you  not  be  easily  consoled  with 
Jessie  ?  You  seem  to  admire  her  very  much.' 

"  While  he  was  talking  to  me  he  had  risen,  and  now  he 
was  leaning  against  the  iron  fence,  where  he  could  look 
me  directly  in  the  face,  and  where  I,  too,  could  see  him. 
As  I  spoke  of  Jessie,  an  amused  expression  flitted  over 
his  features,  succeeded  by  one  more  serious  as  he  re 
plied  : 

a  '  I  never  supposed  Jessie  could  be  won  even  if  I 
wished  to  win  her,  flut  now  that  I  am  at  the  confessional, 
I  will  say  that  next  to  yourself  Jessie  Verner  attracts 
and  pleases  me  more  than  any  one  with  whom  I  have 
met  since  Anna  died.  There  is  about  her  a  life  and 
sparkle  which  would  put  to  rout  a  whole  regiment  of 
blues,  while  her  great  kindness  to  mother  and  .Robin 
show  her  to  be  a  true,  genuine  woman  at  heart.  I  ha\  e 
aeen  but  little  of  her.  I  admire  her  greatly,  and  had  1 


RICHARD'S  STORY.  117 

never  met  you,  Dora,  I  might  have  turned  to  Jessie. 
Surely  this  should  not  make  you  jealous.' 

"  I  knew  it  should  not,  but  I  think  I  must  have  been 
crazy  ;  certainly  I  was  in  a  most  perverse,  unreasonable 
mood,  and  I  answered : 

" '  I  am  not  jealous, but  I  have  seen  your  great  admira 
tion  for  Jessie,  and  if  on  so  short  an  acquaintance  you 
like  her  almost  as  well  as  you  do  me,  whom  you  have 
known  for  years,  it  would  not  take  long  for  you  to  like 
her  better,  so  I  think  it  wise  for  you  to  wait  until  you 
know  your  mind.' 

"  I  wonder  he  did  not  leave  me  at  once ;  he  did  move 
away  quickly,  saying : 

t(  f  It  is  not  like  you,  Dora,  to  trifle  thus.  You  either 
love  me  or  you  do  not.  I  cannot  give  you  up  willingly. 
You  are  tired,  weak,  excited,  and  you  need  not  answer  me 
now,  though  I  hoped  for  something  different.  I  shall 
think  of  you,  love  you,  pray  for  you,  while  I  am  gone, 
and  possibly  write  to  you ;  then,  when  I  return,  I  shall 
repeat  the  question  of  to-day,  and  ask  you  again  to  be  my 
wife.' 

"  He  was  perfectly  collected  now,  and  something  in  his 
manner  awed  me  into  silence.  The  sun  had  already  set, 
and  the  night  dews  beginning  to  fall.  He  was  the  first 
to  notice  it,  and  with  tender  care  he  drew  my  shawl  a 
second  time  about;  my  neck,  and  then  taking  my  arm  in 
his,  led  me  away  from  Anna's  grave  out  into  the  street*, 


118  RICHARD'S  STORY. 

where  more  than  one  turned  to  look  inquiringly  after  tut, 
whispering  their  surmise  that  we  were  really  engaged. 

"  He  stayed  in  Morrisville  three  days  after  that,  and 
Mattie  invited  him  to  tea,  with  Judge  Veiner's  family 
and  Dr.  Lincoln.  He  came,  as  I  knew  he  would,  but  the 
judge  and  the  doctor  kept  him  so  constantly  talking  of 
homoeopathy  that  I  hardly  saw  him  at  all  till  just  as  he 
was  going,  when  he  held  my  hand  in  his  own.  and  looked 
into  my  eyes  so  kindly  that  I  could  scarcely  keep  back 
the  tears  which  would  have  told  him  that  I  loved  him 
now,  and  he  need  not  wait  a  year.  A  bad  headache  had 
prevented  Bell  from  coming,  and  as  the  judge  was  called 
away  on  business,  the  doctor  walked  home  with  Jessie, 
while  I  watched  them  as  far  as  I  could  see,  feeling  myself 
grow  hot  and  angry  when  I  saw  how  Jessie  leaned  upon 
his  arm,  and  looked  up  in  his  face  as  confidingly  as  a 
child. 

"  Remembering  that  he  wished  her  to  know  of  Anna,  I 
tried  one  day  to  tell  her,  but  she  knew  it  already  from 
Mrs.  West,  and  exonerated  Richard  from  all  Mame. 
She  is  at  the  cottage  a  great  deal,  and  Mattie  thinks  her 
greatly  interested  in  Dr.  West.  I  wish  he  had  not  said 
that  next  to  me  he  preferred  Jessie,  for  it  haunts  me  con« 
tinually,  and  makes  me  very  unamiable." 


CHAPTER  XT!. 

THE   SHADOW   OP   DEATH. 

Telegram  to  Dora  Freeman,  Morrisville. 

"  '  SARATOGA,  August  25th 

**  *  Come  immediately.    Madge  is  very  sick,  and  cannot  poaaiblj 
live.  "  '  JOHN  Rusauia  .' 

|  HIS  is  the  telegram  which  I  received  this*  morn 
ing,  and  to-morrow  I  am  going  to  poo<  Mar 
garet.  God  grant  she  may  not  be  dead .'  Dear 
sister,  what  would  I  not  give  if  I  had  never  writtui  those 
dreadful  things  of  her  in  my  journal.  Poor  Mo/garet ! 
her  married  life  has  not  been  very  happy  with  sJ\  those 
children  born  so  fast,  and  if  she  lives  how  much  I  will 
love  her  to  make  amends  for  the  past.  My  trunks  are 
packed  and  standing  in  the  hall,  and  I  am  looking,  for 
the  last  time  it  may  be,  on  the  woods  and  hills  of 
Morrisville,  where  the  moonlight  is  falling  so  softly.  I 
can  see  a  little  of  the  cemetery  in  the  distance,  and  I 
know  where  Anna's  grave  is  so  well.  I  have  been  there 
but  once  since  that  day,  and  then  I  found  Jessie  with 
Mis.  West  planting  flowers  over  Robin.  Mrs.  West 
loves  that  young  girl,  and  so  do  I,  in  spite  of  what  the 
doctor  said  j  but  she  does  shock  me  with  her  boyish, 


120  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH 

thoughtless  manners,  actually  whistling  John  Brown 
as  she  dug  in  the  yellow  dirt.  Jessie  is  a  queer  com 
pound.  She  and  her  father  and  Bell  are  going  on  with 
me  to  Saratoga.  Oh,  if  Dr.  West  could  be  there  too,  ho 
irould  cure  Margaret.  I  have  been  half  tempted  to  tele 
graph,  but  finally  concluded  that  brother  John  would  do 
so  if  desirable.  Poor  John !  what  will  he  do  if  he  is  left 
alone  ?  and  does  Jessie  remember  the  foolish  thing  she 
said  about  his  second  wife  ?  I  trust  not,  for  that  would 
be  terrible,  and  Margaret  not  yet  dead. 

"CLARENDON  HOTEL,  SARATOGA.  ) 
August  30th.      J 

"  My  heart  will  surely  break  unless  I  unburden  it  to 
some  one,  and  so  I  come  to  you,  my  journal,  to  pour  out 
my  grief.  Margaret  is  dead;  and  all  around,  the  gay 
world  is  unchanged ;  the  song  and  the  dance  go  on  the 
same  as  if  in  No. —  there  were  no  rigid  form,  no  pale 
Margaret  gone  forever, — no  wretched  husband  weeping 
over  her, — no  motherless  little  children  left  alone  so 
early. 

"It  was  seven  when  we  reached  Saratoga,  and  I 
stepped  from  the  car  into  the  noisy,  jostling  crowd  which 
Judge  Verner  pushed  hither  and  thither  in  his  frantic 
efforts  to  find  his  baggage,  and  secure  an  omnibus.  How 
sick  of  fashionable  life  it  made  me,  to  see  the  throng 
ipon  the  sidewalks  and  in  front  of  the  hotels,  as  we  drove 
along  the  streets,  and  how  anxiously  I  looked  up  at  all 


THti  SHADO  W  OF  DEATH. 

the  tipper  windows  as  we  stopped  before  the  Clarendon, 
saying  to  myself,  '  Is  this  Margaret's  room,  or  that  ? ' 

"  T  knew  there  was  a  group  of  men  on  the  piazza,  and 
remembering  how  curiously  new-comers  are  inspected,  I 
drew  my  veil  before  my  face  and  was  following  Judge 
Verner,  when  Jessie  suddenly  exclaimed,  *  Perfectly 
splendid !  '  and  the  next  moment  my  hand  was  grasped 
by  Dr.  West.  He  was  waiting  for  us,  he  said ;  he  ex 
pected  us  on  that  train,  and  v<ta  staying  downstairs  to 
meet  us. 

"  '  And  Margaret?'  I  aske/V,  clinging  to  his  arm,  and 
throwing  off  my  veil  so  I  could  see  his  face. 

" { Your  sister  is  very  ^ick,'  he  replied,  '  but  your  com 
ing  will  do  her  good.  She  keeps  asking  for  you.  I  ar 
rived  yesterday,  starting  as  soon  as  I  received  your 
brother's  telegram.  Johnnie  is  nearly  distracted,  and 
nothing  but  my  telling  him  I  was  sure  you  would  prefer 
to  have  him  remain  at  home,  was  of  the  least  avail  to 
keep  Mm  from  coming  with  me. 

"  A 11  this  he  told  me  while  we  waited  in  the  reception- 
room  for  the  keys  to  our  apartments. 

"  '  ]  t  is  very  crowded  here,'  he  said,  ( but  by  a  little 
engineering  I  believe  you  are  all  comfortably  provided 
for.  Your  room  especially,' and  he  nodded  to  me,  'is 
the  most  desirable  in  the  building.' 

**  I  did  not  then  know  he  had  given  it  up  to  me,  going 

himself  into  a  little  hot  attic  chamber.     Kind,  generous 
6 


}29  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH. 

Richard,  you  are  a  great  comfort  to  me  these  dreadful 
days.  As  he  had  said,  my  own  room  was  every  way  de 
sirable,  but  I  only  gave  it  at  first  a  hasty  glance,  so  anx 
ious  was  I  to  get  to  Margaret.  She  knew  I  had  come, 
and  was  asking  continually  for  me.  How  sadly  she  was 
changed  from  the  Margaret  who  stood  upon  the  piazza  and 
said  good-by  one  morning  last  June.  The  long  curls  were 
all  brushed  back,  and  the  blue  eyes  looked  so  large,  so  un 
naturally  bright,  as  they  txirned  eagerly  to  me,  and  yet  I 
liked  her  face  better  than  ever  before.  There  was  less 
of  self  stamped  upon  it,  and  more  of  kindly  interest  in 
others. 

"  '  Dora,  darling  sister,'  was  all  she  said,  as  she  wound 
her  arms  about  my  neck,  but  never  since  my  childhood 
had  she  called  me  by  so  endearing  a  title,  and  I  felt  spring 
ing  up  in  my  heart  a  love  mightier  than  any  I  had  ever 
felt  for  her,  while  with  it  came  a  keen  remorse  for  the 
harsh  things  written  against  my  dying  sister. 

"  I  knew  she  was  dying ;  not  that  instant,  perhaps,  but 
that  soon,  very  soon,  she  would  be  gone,  for  there  was 
upon  her  face  the  same  pinched  look  I  had  seen  on  father 
and  Kobin  just  before  the  great  destroyer  came. 

"  *  Dora,'  she  whispered  at  last,  '  I  am  so  glad  you  are 
here.  I.  was  afraid  I  might  never  see  you  again,  and  I 
wanted  so  much  to  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am  for  the  past. 
J  did  not  make  your  home  with  me  as  happy  as  I  might. 
Forgive  me,  Dora.  I  worried  you  and  John  so  much. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.  123 

He  sajs  I  never  did,  but  I  know  better.  IVe  thotght  ii 
all  over,  lying  here,  and  I  know  you  cannot  be  so  sorry 
to  \a,ve  me  die  as  I  should  if  it  were  you.' 

"  I  tried  to  stop  her, — tried  to  say  that  I  had  been 
happy  with  her, — but  she  would  not  listen,  and  talked  on, 
telling  m»  next  of  the  little  life  which  had  looked  foi 
half  an  hour  upon  this  world,  and  then  floated  away  to 
the  next. 

" '  I  called  it  Dora  for  you,'  she  said,  '  for  something 
told  me  that  I  should  die,  and  I  thought  you  might  love 
baby  better  if  she  bore  your  name.  But  I  am  glad  she 
died  ;  it  makes  your  burden  less :  for  Pora,  you  will  be 
my  children's  mother, — you  will  care  for  them.' 

"  I  thought  of  Dr.  West,  and  the  year  which  divided 
us,  but  I  answered,  '  Yes,  I  will  care  for  the  children ; ' 
and  then,  to  stop  her  talking,  I  was  thinking  of  leaving 
her,  when  Jessie's  voice  was  heard  in  the  hall,  speaking 
to  the  chamber-maid. 

" '  Who  is  that  ?  '  Margaret  asked,  her  old  expression 
coming  back  and  settling  dowa  into  a  hard,  unpleasant 
expression,  when  I  replied  : 

"  '  That's  Jessie  Verner.  The  family  came  with  me, 
or  rather  I  came  with  then:  You  know  her ;  she  was 
here  a  few  weeks  since.' 

"  *  The  dreadful  girl !  Why,  Dora,  she  whistles,  and 
romps  with  the  dog,  and  talks  to  the  gentlemen,  and  goet 
'down  the  sidawalk  hip-pi-ti-hop,  and  up  the  stairs  two  a* 


124:  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH. 

a  time;  and  joked  with  John  about  being  his  second  wife 
right  before  me  1  Actually,  Dora,  right  before  me  I '  and 
Margaret's  voice  was  highly  indicative  of  her  horror  at 
this  last-named  sin  of  Jessie's. 

" '  It  was  better  to  joke  before  you  than  when  you  were 
absent.  Jessie  is  at  least  frank  and  open-hearted,'  I  said, 
but  Margaret  would  not  hear  a  word  in  her  favor,  so  deep 
ly  prejudiced  had  she  become  against  the  young  girl,  who 
half  an  hour  later  inquired  for  her  with  much  concern, 
and  asked  if  she  might  see  her. 

" « I  did  not  know,'  I  said,  « I'd  ask.' 

"  '  Never,  Dora,  never  1 '  and  Margaret's  lips  shut  firm  • 
ly.  'That  terrible  girl  see  me!  No,  indeed  !  '  and  in 
this  she  persisted  to  the  last,  Dr.  West  telling  Jessie  that 
he  did  not  think  it  best  for  her  to  call  on  Mrs.  Russell, 
as  it  might  disturb  her. 

"That  night,  tired  as  Jessie  was,  she  danced  like  a  top 
in  the  drawing-room,  meeting  many  acquaintances,  and 
winning  a  host  of  male  admirers  by  her  frankness  and 
originality.  Next  morning  I  counted  upon  her  table  as 
many  as  six  bouquets,  the  finest  of  which  she  begged  mo 
carry  Margaret,  with  her  compliments. 

"  Margaret  was  weaker  this  morning  than  she  had  been 
the  previous  night,  but  her  eyes  lighted  up  with  a  gleam 
of  pleasure  when  I  appeared  with  the  floM  ers,  and  she  in 
Toluntarily  raised  her  hand  to  take  them. 


THE  8HADO  W  OF  DEATH.  125 

" '  Miss  Jessie  sent  them,'  I  said,  and  instantly  they 
dropped  from  Margaret's  grasp,  while  she  exclaimed  : 

"  '  That  dreadful  girl  ?  Put  them  out  of  my  sight. 
They  make  me  sick.  I  can't  endure  it ! ' 

"  So  I  put  the  poor  discarded  flowers  away  in  the  chil 
dren's  room,  and  then  went  back  to  Margaret,  who  kept 
me  by  her  the  live-long  day,  talking  of  the  years  gone  by, 
of  our  dead  parents,  and  finally  of  the  rapidly  coming 
time  when  she  would  be  dead  like  them.  Then  she  spoke 
of  Johnnie  and  the  little  boys  at  home,  and  gave  to  me 
messages  of  love,  with  sundry  injunctions  to  mind  what 
ever  I  might  tell  them.  Remembering  Johnnie's  letter, 
in  which  he  had  expressed  so  much  contrition  for  the 
saucy  words  said  to  her  when  he  did  battle  for  me,  I  told 
her  of  his  grief  and  his  desire  that  I  should  do  so.  Mar 
garet  was  beautiful  then,  with  the  great  mother-love 
shining  out  upon  her  face,  as  with  quivering  lip  she  bade 
me  tell  the  repentant  boy  how  she  forgave  him  all  the 
past,  and  only  thought  of  him  as  her  eldest-born  and 
pride. 

"  '  And,  Dora,  when  I'm  dead,  cut  off  some  of  my  curls, 
and  give  the  longest,  the  brightest  to  Johnnie.' 

l(  I  assented  with  tears,  and  received  numerous  other  di 
rections  until  my  brain  was  in  a  whirl,  so  much  seemed 
depending  upon  me. 

"  Hovering  constantly  over  and  around  her  was  broth** 
John,  doing  everything  PO  clumsily  and  yet  so  kindhr. 


126  THE  8HALOW  OF  DEATH. 

that  Margaret  did  not  send  him  from  her  until  the  day 
was  closing.  Then  as  I  came  back  to  her  after  a  short 
absence,  during  which  I  had  gone  with  Bell  and  Jessie  to 
the  Congress  Spring,  she  said  to  him  softly : 

u  *  Now  leave  me  with  Dora.' 

"  He  obeyed  silently,  and  I  fancied  there  was  a  flush 
upon  his  cheek  as  he  closed  the  door  upon  us.  All 
thought  of  that,  however,  was  forgotten  in  Margaret's 
question : 

"  *  Dora,  are  you  engaged  ? ' 

"  How  I  started,  standing  upon  my  feet,  so  that  from 
the  window  I  saw  Dr.  West  leaning  against  a  tree,  and 
talking  to  Jessie,  who  sat  with  Bell  upon  the  piazza.  1 
thought  she  referred  to  him,  and  I  answered  her  no, 
wondering  the  while  if  it  was  a  falsehood  I  told  her. 

"  c  I  am  glad,'  she  said,  reaching  for  my  hand.  '  When 
I  heard  he  was  at  his  sister's  in  Morrisville,  I  thought  it 
might  end  in  an  engagement,  particularly  as  he  admired 
you  so  much  when  he  visited  us  last  summer.' 

"  I  knew  now  that  she  was  talking  of  Lieutenant  Reed, 
and  that  no  suspicion  of  my  love  for  Dr.  West  had  ever 
crossed  her  mind,  and  so  I  listened,  while  she  con 
tinued  : 

"  *  I  told  you  last  night  that  you  must  be  my  children's 
mothsr,  and  you  promised  that  you  would.  Tell  me  so 
again,  Dora.  Say  that  no  one  else  shall  come  between 
you,  and  if,  in  after  years,  children  of  your  own  shall 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.  127 

climb  your  lap,  and  cling  about  your  neck,  love  mine  still 
for  your  de-ad  sister's  sake.  Promise,  Dora.' 

"  For  an  instant  there  flashed  upon  my  mind  a  thought, 
the  reality  of  which  would  prove  a  living  death,  and  in; 
that  interval  I  felt  all  the  sickening  anguish  which  would 
surely  come  upon  me  were  I  to  take  her  place  in  every 
thing.  But  she  did  not  mean  that.  She  could  not  doom 
me  to  such  a  fate,  and  so  when  she  said  to  me  again 
faintly,  oh !  so  faintly,  while  the  perspiration  stood  on  her 
white  lips,  and  her  cold  hand  clasped  mine  pleadingly, 
*  Promise,  Dora,  to  be  my  children's  mother.' 

"  1  answered,  e  Yes,  I  will  care  for  and  be  to  them  a 
mother.' 

" '  You  make  me  so  happy,'  she  replied  ;  '  for,  Dora,' 
and  her  dim  eyes  flashed  indignantly,  '  you  may  say  it 
was  all  in  a  jest,  but  I  know  that  dreadful  whistling  girl 
meant  more  than  half  she  said.  She  fancied  John,  and 
sometimes  I  thought  he  fancied  her.  Dora,  I  should  rise 
out  of  my  grave  to  have  her  there,  in  my  room,  riding  in 
my  carriage,  sporting  my  diamonds,  and  using  my  dresses, 
the  whistling  hoyden  ! ' 

"  I  shed  tears  of  repentance  over  Margaret's  dead  body 
for  the  merry  laugh  I  could  not  repress  at  the  mere  idea 
of  her  being  jealous  of  Jessie  Verner,  who  was  only  eigh 
teen  years  of  age,  while  brother  John  was  almost  forty. 
My  laugh  disturbed  her,  and  so  I  forced  it  back,  going  at 


128  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH. 

her  request  for  John,  who,  when  next  we  met  alone, 
stroked  my  hair  kindly,  saying  to  me  : 

"  *  You  are  a  good  girl,  Dora,  to  make  Madge  so  easy 
about  the  children.' 

"  Again  that  torturing  fear  ran  like  a  sharp  knife  through 
every  nerve,  and  hurrying  on  to  the  farther  end  of  the 
long  hall,  I  sat  down  upon  the  floor  and  wept  bitterly  aa 
I  thought,  l  What  if  Margaret  did  mean  that  I  should 
Borne  time  be  bis  wife.  Am  I  bound  by  a  promise  to  do 
so?' 

"  From  the  busy  street  below  came  up  a  hum  of  voices, 
among  which  I  recognized  the  clear,  musical  tones  of  Dr. 
West,  while  there  stole  over  me  a  mad  desire  to  fly  to 
him  at  once,  to  throw  myself  into  his  arms  and  ask  him 
to  save  me  from  I  knew  not  what,  unless  it  were  tha 
white-faced  sister  going  so  fast  from  our  midst.  And 
while  I  sat  there  crouching  upon  the  floor,  Jessie  came 
tripping  down  the  hall,  her  bright  face  all  aglow  with 
excitement,  but  changing  its  expression  when  she  saw 
and  recognized  me. 

"  '  Poor  Dora!'  she  whispered,  kneeling  beside  me  and 
pressing  her  warm  cheek  against  my  own ;  '  I  am  so  sorry 
for  you.  It  must  be  dreadful  to  lose  one's  sister.  Why, 
only  this  afternoon,  when  I  was  talking  and  laughing 
with  those  young  men  downstairs,  whom  I  can't  endure, 
only  1  like  to  have  them  after  me,  I  was  thinking  of  you, 
and  the  tears  came  into  my  eyes  as  I  tried  to  fancy  how 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.  129 

I  should  feel  if  Bell  were  dying  here.  Death  seems  mora 
terrible,  don't  it,  when  it  comes  to  such  a  place  as  this, 
where  there  is  so  much  vanity,  and  emptiness,  amj 
fashion  ?  I  have  been  saying  so  to  Dr.  West,  who  talked 
to  me  so  Christian-like.  Oh  1  I  wish  I  was  as  good  aa 
Dr.  West !  I  should  not  then  be  afraid  to  lie  where 
your  sister  does,  and  go  out  from  this  world  alone  in  the 
night,  leaving  you  all  behind.  Is  she  afraid,  do  you 
think?' 

"  I  did  not  know,  and  I  answered  only  with  a.  choking 
sob,  as  I  gazed  up  into  the  clear  evening  sky,  where  the 
myriads  of  stars  were  shining,  and  thought  of  the  father 
and  mother  already  gone,  wondering  if  we  should  one 
day  all  meet  again,  an  unbroken  family.  For  a  long  time 
we  sat  there,  I  listening  while  Jessie  talked  as  I  had  not 
thought  it  possible  for  her  to  talk.  There  was  more  to 
her  even  than  to  Bell  I  began  to  realize,  wishing  Mar 
garet  might  live  to  have  her  prejudice  removed.  But 
that  could  not  be.  Even  then  the  dark-winged  messenger 
was  on  his  way,  stealing  noiselessly  into  the  crowded 
house  and  gliding  past  the  gay  throng,  each  one  of  which 
would  some  day  be  sent  for  thus.  Up  the  winding  stair  he 
went  and  through  the  upper  halls  until  Margaret's  room 
was  reached,  and  there  he  entered.  Dr.  West  was  the 
first  to  detect  his  presence,  knowing  he  was  there  by  the 
peculiar  shadow  cast  by  his  dark  wing  upon  the  ghastly 
face  and  by  the  fluttering  of  the  feeble  pulse;  and 


130  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH. 

Margaret  knew  it  next,  and  asked  for  me  and  the  chil« 
dren. 

"  I  was  sitting  with  Jessie  at  the  window,  watchirg  th« 
glittering  stars,  when  a  step  came  hurriedly  towards  us, 
and  Dr.  "West's  voice  said  to  me,  pityingly  : 

"  l  Dora,  your  sister  has  sent  for  you.  I  believe  she 
is  dying.' 

"  I  had  expected  she  would  die, — had  said  I  was  pre 
pared  to  meet  it ;  but  now  when  it  came  it  was  a  sudden 
blow,  and  as  I  rose  to  my  feet  I  uttered  a  moaning  cry, 
which  made  the  doctor  lay  his  hand  on  my  head,  while, 
unmindful  of  Jessie's  presence,  he  passed  one  arm  round 
my  waist,  and  so  led  me  on  to  where  the  husband  and 
the  children  wept  around  the  dying  wife  and  mother. 
The  waltzing  had  commenced  in  the  parlor  below,  and 
strain  after  strain  of  the  stirring  music  came  in  through 
the  open  windows,  making  us  shudder  and  grow  faint, 
"or  standing  there,  with  death  in  our  midst,  the  song  and 
;he  dance  were  sadly  out  of  place.  For  a  moment  I 
missed  the  doctor  from  my  side,  and  afterwards  I  heard 
how  a  few  well-chosen  words  from  him  had  sufficed  to 
stop  the  revellers,  who  silently  dispersed,  some  to  the 
other  hotels,  where  there  was  no  dying-bed,  some  to  the 
cool  piazzas,  where  in  hushed  tones  they  tallied  together 
of  Margaret,  and  others  to  their  rooms,  thinking,  as  Jes- 
gie  had  done,  how  much  more  terrible  was  death  at  such 
a  place  as  this,  than  when  it  came  into  the  quiet  bed- 


THE  SHADOW  OP  DEATH.  13] 

ehamber  of  home.  And  the  great  hotel  was  silent  at 
last,  every  guest  respecting  the  sorrow  falling  so  heavily 
on  a  few,  and  even  the  servants  in  the  kitchen  catching 
the  pervading  spirit,  and  speaking  only  in  whispers  as 
they  kept  on  with  their  labor.  And  up  in  Margaret's 
room  it  was  quiet,  too,  as  we  watched  the  life  going  out 
slowly,  very  slowly,  so  that  the  twinkling  lights  were 
gone  from  the  many  windows,  and  the  nuns  in  the  con 
vent  across  the  street  had  ceased  to  tell  their  beads  ere 
the  chamber-maid  in  our  hall  leaned  over  the  bannisters, 
and  whispered  to  a  chamber-maid  below,  *  The  lady  is 
dead.' 

"  There  had  been  a  last  word,  and  it  was  spoken  to 
mey  ringing  in  my  ears  for  hours  after  the  stiffening 
limbs  were  straightened,  and  the  covering  laid  over  the 
still,  white  face  of  her  who  said  them. 

"  '  Hemember  your  promise,  Dora, — your  promise  to 
your  dead  sister.' 

"  Yes.  I  would  remember  it,  as  I  understood  it,  I 
said  to  myself,  hugging  little  Daisy  in  my  arms,  and 
soothing  her  back  to  the  sleep  which  had  been  broken 
that  her  mother  might  kiss  her  once  more.  And  while 
I  cared  for  Daisy,  Jessie  cared  for  Margaret,  just  as  she 
had  for  Robin.  Jessie  was  a  blessing  to  us  then,  and  we 
could  not  well  have  done  without  her.  Bell,  though  ten 
years  older,  was  helpless  as  a  child,  while  her  young  sis 
ter  or  Jered  al],  thought,  of  all,  even  to  the  bereaved  hu» 


132  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH. 

band  sobbing  so  long  by  the  side  of  his  lost  wife.  IB 
the  gray  dawn  of  the  morning,  as  I  passed  the  room,  1 
saw  her  standing  by  him,  and  knew  she  was  comforting 
him,  for  her  small  hand  was  smoothing  his  hair  as  if  he 
lad  been  her  father.  Involuntarily  I  looked  to  see  ii 
from  the  dead  there  came  no  sign  of  disapprobation ;  b\it 
no,  the  wife  was  lying  there  so  still,  while  Jessie  com 
forted  the  husband. 

"  They  have  put  Margaret  in  her  coffin ;  it  is  fifteen 
hours  since  she  died,  and  to-morrow  we  shall  go  with  her 
back  to  the  home  she  left  a  few  weeks  since,  and  whither 
a  telegram  has  preceded  us  telling  them  of  our  loss. 
Jessie  would  gladly  accompany  me,  but  I  do  not  think  it 
best,  neither  does  Bell,  and  so  she  will  remain  behind, 
and  visit  me  in  the  winter  with  her  sister.  I  shall  need 
her  then  so  much,  for  the  world  will  be  doubly  lonely, — 
Margaret  gone,  and  the  California  sun  shining  down  on 
Richard.  Do  I  love  him  now?  Yes,  oh  yes,  and  I  am 
not  ashamed  to  confess  it  here  on  paper,  while  more  than 
once  I  have  wished  so  much  to  tell  it  to  him, — wished  he 
would  ask  me  again  what  he  did  by  Anna's  grave,  and  I 
would  not  answer  angrily,  jealously  as  then.  I  would 
gay  to  him : 

" '  Wait,  Richard,  a  little  time  till  Margaret's  children 
are  a  few  years  older,  and  then  I  will  be  yours,  caring 
•till  for  the  little  ones  as  I  promised  I  would.' 


THE  SEAUOW  OF  DEATH.  133 

"But  he  gives  me  no  chance,  and  talks  with  Jessie 
and  Bell  far  more  than  he  does  with  me.  He  is  going 
with  us  to  Beechwood,  and  then  in  a  few  weeks'  time  he 
too,  will  be  gone,  and  I  left  all  alone.  Oh,  if  he  would 
but  give  me  a  right  to  think  of,  and  talk  of  him  as  of 
one  who  was  to  be  my  husband,  that  terrible  something 
would  not  haunt  me  as  it  does,  neither  should  I  ask  my- 
Belf  so  constantly : 

" '  Did  Margaret  mean  anything  more  than  that  M  ft 
Bother  I  should  care  for  her  children  ? '  " 


CHAPTER 

AT   BEECHWOOD. 

The  Author's   Story. 

|[HE  great  house  at  Beechwood  was  closed,  and 
the  first  September  sunshine  which  lay  so 
warmly  on  the  grassy  lawn  and  blooming 
flower-garden,  found  no  entrance  through  the  doors  and 
curtained  windows  of  what  had  been  Margaret  Russell's 
home,  and  whither  they  were  bringing  her  lifeless  form. 
During  the  past  week  there  had  been  hot,  passionate 
tears  wept  in  that  desolate  home,  and  touching  childish 
prayers  made  that  God  would  spare  the  sick  mother  till 
her  broken-hearted  boy  could  tell  how  sorry  he  was  for  the 
angry  words  spoken  to  her,  and  for  /he  many  acts  of  dis 
obedience  which  came  thronging  around  him  like  so 
many  accusing  spirits.  Poor  Johnnie's  heart  was  almost 
crushed  when  he  heard  that  his  mother  must  die,  and 
calling  Ben  and  Burt  to  him,  he  bade  them  kneel  with 
him,  and  ask  that  God  would  give  her  back  to  them 
Alive.  And  so  with  concern  for  Johnnie  on  their  baby 
(aces,  rather  than  concern  for  their  mother,  the  two  little 


AT  BEECIIWOOD.  135 

bo^Ji  prayed  that  "  God  would  make  mamma  well,  and 
not  l«tt  her  die,  or  anyway  send  home  Auntie  Dora." 

Thii  was  Ben's  idea,  and  it  brought  a  world  of  com 
fort,  making  him  ask  Johnnie  "  if  it  wouldn't  be  nicer 
after  aH  to  have  Auntie  than  mamma." 

"  Perhaps  it  would,  if  I  hadn't  been  so  sassy  to  her 
that  morning,  twitting  her  about  not  caring  for  us  like 
A.untie,  and  telling  her  to  dry  up.  Oh,  oh !  "  and  the 
conscience-smitten  boy  rolled  on  the  floor  in  his  first  real 
sorrow. 

To  Ben,  looking  on  in  wonder,  there  came  a  though* 
fraught,  as  he  hoped,  with  comfort  to  his  brother,  and 
pursing  up  his  little  mouth,  he  said : 

"  Pho  !  I  wouldn't  keel  over  like  that  'cause  I'd  said 
dry  up.  'Taint  a  swear.  It's  a  real  nice  word,  and  all 
the  boys  in  the  street  say  so." 

Still  Johnnie  was  not  comforted,  and  in  a  state  of  ter 
rible  suspense  he  waited  from  day  to  day  until  the  fatal 
morning  when  there  came  a  telegram  which  he  spelled 
out  with  Burt  and  Ben  sitting  on  the  doorstep  beside  him, 
their  fat  hands  on  his  knee,  and  their  little  round  dirty 
faces  turned  inquiringly  towards  him  as  he  read : 

"  SARATOGA,  August  31st. 

"  Tour  mother  died  at  midnight.  We  shall  be  home  to-mo* 
row,  on  the  evening  train." 

There  was  at  first  no  sudden  outburst,  but  a  compressed 


136  AT  BEECHWOOn. 

quivering  of  the  lip,  a  paling  of  the  cheek,  a  hopeless 
look  in  the  eyes,  which  closed  tightly  as  Johnnie  began  to 
realize  the  truth.  Then,  with  a  loud,  wild  cry,  he  threw 
himself  upon  the  grass,  while  Ben  and  Burt  laughed  glee 
fully  at  the  contortions  of  body  which  they  fancied  were 
made  for  their  amusement.  At  last,  however,  they  too 
understood  it  partially,  and  Ben  tried  to  imitate  his 
brother's  method  of  expressing  grief  by  also  rolling  in  the 
grass,  while  Burt,  thinking  intently  for  a  moment,  said, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief: 

ff  I'm  plaguy  glad  Aunty  isn't  dead  too." 

And  this  was  all  the  consolation  there  was  in  that 
home  at  Beechwood.  Dora  was  not  dead.  She  was 
coming  home  and  would  bring  sunshine  with  her.  With 
.  a  desire  to  have  everything  done  in  accordance  with  her 
taste,  and  also  with  a  view  to  honor  his  mother's  memory, 
Johnnie,  roused  at  last,  and  without  a  word  of  consulta- 
tion  with  any  one,  sought  the  old  colored  sexton,  bidding 
him  toll  the  bell,  and  adding  with  a  quivering  lip: 

"  It's  for  my  mother,  and  if  you'll  toll  it  extra  for  an 
hour  I'll  give  you  half  a  dollar  now,  and  a  bushel  of  shag- 
barks  in  the  fall." 

It  did  not  occur  to  the  negro  that  possibly  some  higher 
authority  than  Johnnie's  was  needful  ere  he  proceeded  to 
toll  for  a  person  dead  in  Saratoga,  but  lov*  of  gain  anH 
^hag-barks  predominated  over  other  feelings,  and  for  « 
full  hour  and  a  quarter  the  bell  from  the  old  church 


AT  BEECHWOOD.  137 

•teeple  rang  out  its  solemn  tones,  tolling  till  the  villagers 
wondered  if  it  would  never  stop,  and  repaired,  some  of 
them,  to  the  spot,  where  Johnnie  sat  like  a  second  Shy- 
lock,  holding  the  sexton's  watch  and  keeping  accurate 
note  of  time  as  the  old  man  bent  to  his  task,  and  tolled 
that  long  requiem  for  Margaret  Russell.  This  done 
Johnnie  wended  his  way  to  a  dry-goods  store,  and  before 
night-fall  there  were  streamers  of  crape  hanging  from  the 
gate  and  from  every  door-knob,  while  a  band  of  the  same 
was  tied  around  the  arms  of  Ben  and  Burt,  who  wore 
them  quietly  for  a  time  and  then  made  what  they  called 
horse  blankets  for  their  velocipede.  Poor  little  babies 
of  four  and  five,  they  knew  no  better,  and  only  acted  as 
other  children  do  when  left  wholly  to  themselves.  Years 
hence  they  will  weep  for  the  mother  scarcely  remenv 
bered,  but  now  her  death  was  nothing  to  them,  except  a* 
they  saw  the  deep  distress  of  Johnnie,  who,  long  after 
they  were  sleeping  in  their  cribs,  sobbed  passionate!] 
upon  his  pillow,  sorrowing  most  of  all  for  the  angry  wordr 
spoken  to  the  mother  who  would  never  know  his  grief 
How  long  to  him  were  the  hours  of  the  next  day,  whei 
they  waited  for  the  dead.  It  was  also  a  day  of  peace  and 
quiet,  for  owing  to  Johnnie's  continual  efforts  there  was 
only  a  single  fight  between  the  little  boys,  who  other 
wise  comported  themselves  with  admirable  propriety,  ask 
ing  often  when  Aunt  Dora  would  come,  and  if  Johnnii 
was  sure  she  was  not  dead  too  ? 


138  -4?'  [SEEGUWOOD. 

At  last  the  train  came  screaming  in,  and  shortly  sftoi 
the  hearse  stopped  before  the  gate,  while  the  coffin  was 
brought  slowly  up  the  walk  and  placed  in  the  darkened 
parloi  With  a  great  sobbing  cry  Johnnie  sprang 
towards  Dora,  but  suddenly  checked  himself,  as  there 
flashed  upon  his  mind  that  to  his  father  belonged  the  first 
greeting  of  sorrow.  And  who  that  has  passed  through 
such  a  scene  that  knows  not  the  comfort  there  is  in  the 
sympathy  of  a  warm-hearted  child  !  Squire  Russell  felt 
it  keenly,  as  he  held  his  first-born  in  his  arms  and  heard 
his  boyish  attempts  at  consolation. 

"  We'll  love  each  other  more,  father,  now  our  mother's 
gone.  Poor  father,  don't  cry  so  hard.  If  you'll  stop  I'll 
try  to  do  so  too.  We've  got  Aunt  Dora  left  and  all  the 
children.  Benny,  come  and  kiss  poor  father,  because 
mother  is  dead." 

Such  were  Johnnie's  words,  and  they  fell  soothingly  on 
the  father's  heart,  making  him  think  he  had  not  lost  every 
thing  which  made  his  life  desirable.  He  had  his  children 
etill,  and  he  had  Dora  too.  She  was  in  the  nursery  now, 
with  Ben  and  Burt  clinging  to  her  neck,  and  asking  why 
she  cried  when  they  were  so  glad  to  have  her  back,  ask 
ing,  too,  what  made  mamma  so  cold,  and  why  she  was 
sleeping  in  that  long  queer  box  on  the  parlor  table.  They 
did  not  know  what  death  meant,  and  continued  their 
questionings  until  their  eyelids  closed  in  slumber,  and 


AT  BEECHWOOD.  139 

they  forgot  the  long  box  on  the  parlor  table,  with  tL« 
mother  sleeping  in  it. 

The  night  was  hot  and  sultry,  and  as  Dora  lay  tossing 
restlessly,  she  fancied  she  heard  a  sound  from  the  parlor, 
which  was  just  beneath  her  room,  and  throwing  on  her 
dressing-gown  she  went  noiselessly  down  the  stairs  to  the 
parlor  door,  which  was  open,  and  saw  a  little  form 
kneeling  by  the  coffin  and  talking  to  the  unconscious 
dead. 

"  O  mother,  maybe  you  can  hear  me ;  I'm  Johnnie, 
and  I'm  so  sorry  I  was  ever  bad  to  you,  and  made  your 
head  ache  so  !"  Poor  mother,  I  used  to  think  I  loved 
Aunt  Dora  best,  but  now  I  know  I  didn't !  There's 
nothing  like  a  mother,  and  I  was  going  to  tell  you  89 
when  you  got  home,  but  you're  dead  and  I  can't!  O 
mother  !  mother  !  will  you  never  know  ?  " 

"  She  does ;  she  did  know,  Johnnie,  for  I  told  her,' 
Dora  said,  advancing  into  the  room  and  taking  the  child 
in  her  arms  ;  "  I  told  her  you  were  sorry,  and  she  forgave 
you  freely,  sending  you  messages  of  love,  and  bidding  me 
cut  her  longest,  brightest  curl  for  you.  I  did  so,  Johnnie  j 
it  is  in  my  room,  and  to-morrow  you  shall  have  it." 

"  Why  not  to-night  ?  "  Johnnie  pleaded,  and  so  his 
aunt  brought  him  the  lock  of  hair  cut  from  Margaret's 
head,  the  mother's  last  memento,  which  Johnny  took  with 
him  to  his  room,  sleeping  more  quietly  because  of  that 
tress  of  hair  upon  his  pillow 


140  AT  BEECHWOOD. 

It  was  a  loi.g  procession  which  followed  Margaret  to 
her  grave,  and  for  the  sake  of  Johnnie  the  sexton  again 
tolled  for  the  dead,  until  the  husband  and  the  sister 
wished  the  sad  sounds  would  cease.  Sadly  they  returned 
to  the  house,  leaving  Margaret  behind  them,  and  missing 
her  more  than  one  month  ago  they  would  have  thought 
it  possible.  But  as  the  days  went  by  the  family  gradually 
resumed  its  wonted  cheerfulness,  for  Dora  was  there  still : 
their  head,  their  blessing,  and  comforter.  Many  lonely 
hours  Squire  Russell  experienced,  it  is  true,  but  there  was 
always  a  solace  in  knowing  that  Dora  would  welcome  him 
home  after  a  brief  and  necessary  absence ;  that  Dora 
would  preside  at  his  table,  and  keep  his  children  in  order  j 
that  Dora,  in  short,  would  do  everything  which  the  most 
faithful  of  sisters  could  do.  The  children,  too,  clung  to 
Dora  even  more  than  they  were  wont  to  do ;  and  little 
Daisy,  taught  by  Clem,  the  nurse-maid,  called  her  mam 
ma,  a  name  which  Ben  and  Burt  were  quick  to  catch, 
and  which  Dora  did  not  like  to  hear,  especially  if  the 
father  chanced  to  be  present. 

At  Dora's  heart  there  was  a  constant  dread  of  some 
impending  evil,  and  when,  three  weeks  after  Margarets' 
death,  she  stood  one  night  alone  with  Dr.  West,  listening 
to  his  farewell,  she  felt  again  a  longing  to  throw  herself 
on  his  protection,  and  thus  she  might  be  saved  from  dan 
ger.  But  the  doctor,  though  treating  her  with  the  ut 
most  tenderness,  had  never  broached  the  subject  of  hit 


AT  DEECHWOOD.  141 

love  since  that  time  at  Anna's  grave,  where  she  answered 
him  so  indifferently.  Her  foolish  words  had  hurt  him 
more  since  than  they  did  then,  causing  him  sometimes  to 
ironder  if  she  did  really  care  for  him.  If  not,  or  if  the 
germ  cf  her  affection  was  as  yet  very  small,  it  was  better 
not  to  press  the  matter,  but  let  it  take  its  course ;  and  so, 
trusting  that  absence  would  do  all  that  he  wished  done, 
he  only  said  good-by  as  he  would  have  said  it  to  a  dear 
sister,  and  hardly  so,  for  when  he  would  have  kissed  the 
sister,  he  left  Dora  unkissed,  fancying  she  would  be 
better  pleased  with  such  a  parting.  His  caresses  had 
wearied  Anna,  and  he  would  not  err  this  way  again,  so 
he  never  touched  the  lips  which  would  have  paid  him 
back  so  gladly,  but  merely  pressed  the  little  hand  which 
trembled  in  his,  as  he  said  to  her,  "  A  year  is  not  very 
long,  Dora.  It  will  pass  sooner  than  we  think,  and  you 
must  not  forget  me."  Another  pressure  of  the  hand,  and 
he  was  gone,  leaving  the  maiden  far  more  desolate  than 
he  dreamed.  Could  he  have  known  how  fast  the  tears 
came,  when  alone  in  her  room  she  went  over  with  the 
parting  and  said  to  herself,  "  He  does  not  love  me  now. 
My  waywardness  has  sickened  him ; "  could  he  have 
Been  her  when  in  the  early  dawn  she  watched  him  as  he 
left  the  house  for  the  last  time,  he  would  have  turned 
'i)ack,  and  by  taking  her  with  him,  or  staying  himself  with 
her,  would  have  saved  her  from  the  dark  storm  which 
would  bear  her  down  with  its  mighty  force. 


142  AT  BEECHWOOD. 

But  this  he  did  not  know,  and  he  went  his  way  to 
Morrisville,  where  his  mother  waited  for  him,  and  where 
Jessie,  just  returned  from  Saratoga,  sparkled,  and  flashed^ 
and  flitted  around  him,  asking  him  to  write  occasionally 
to  her  father,  and  tell  them  of  California. 

"  Why  not  write  to  you'?  "  he  replied,  and  Jessie  re 
sponded  at  once : 

"  To  me,  then,  if  you  like ;  I  shall  be  delighted." 

Judge  Verner,  and  Bell,  and  Mattie  Randall  all  heard 
this  conversation,  and  so  there  could  be  no  harm  in  it, 
Jessie  thought,  while  the  others  thought  the  same,  know 
ing  that  the  light-hearted  girl  was  already  corresponding 
with  at  least  ten  gentlemen,  for  not  one  of  whom  did  she 
care  in  the  least.  She  was  a  merry  little  creature,  and 
she  made  the  doctor's  stay  at  Morrisville  much  pleasanter 
than  it  would  otherwise  have  been,  and  after  he  was 
fairly  on  the  sea,  she  wrote  to  Dora  a  glowing  account 
of  "  the  -perfectly  splendid  time  she  had  with  Doctor 
West,  the  best  and  most  agreeable  man  in  the  world. 
We  are  going  to  correspond,  too,"  she  added  in  a  post- 
icript,  "  and  that  will  make  the  eleventh  gentleman  on 
my  list.  I  want  it  an  even  dozen,  and  then  I'll  be  satis 
fied." 

Dora  knew  Jessie  was  a  flirt,  but  this  did  not  lessen 
the  pang  with  which  she  read  that  Jessie,  and  not  nerselfc 
was  to  be  the  recipient  of  the  doctor's  letters.  Never 
had  the  autumn  seemed  so  dreary  to  her  before ;  and 


AT  BEECHWOOD.  143 

when  the  first  wintry  snows  were  falling  she  shrank,  with 
a  nervous  dread,  from  the  coming  months,  with  the  long, 
long  evenings,  when  there  would  be  nothing  to  occupy 
her  time,  except,  indeed,  the  children,  or  the  game  ol 
chess  whiA  she  played  nightly  with  her  brother. 

For  one  who  at  first  mourned  so  sorely  for  the  dead, 
the  squire  had  recovered  his  spirits  wonderfully,  and  the 
villagers  even  hinted  that,  as  is  usual  with  widowers,  his 
dress  had  undergone  a  change,  being  now  more  youthful 
and  stylish  than  in  former  days  when  Margaret  was  alive. 
Young  girls  blushed  when  he  appeared  at  any  of  the  so 
cial  gatherings,  while  the  older  ones  grew  very  conscious 
of  themselves,  and  the  mothers  were  excessively  polite 
and  gracious  to  the  squire.  He  was  happier  than  he 
used  to  be,  notwithstanding  that  he  went  twice  a  week 
to  Margaret's  grave,  and  always  spoke  of  her  as  "  my  dear 
wife."  It  soothed  his  conscience  to  do  this,  particularly 
as  he  felt  how  much  he  enjoyed  going  home  from  Marga 
ret's  grave,  and  finding  order  and  quiet  and  pleasant 
words,  where  once  there  had  been  confusion  and  fretful 
complaints.  Dora  was  very  pretty  in  her  mourning-garb, 
with  the  simple  linen  band  about  her  neck  and  wrists, 
for  she  would  relieve  the  sombre  aspect  of  her  dress  with 
a  show  of  white,  even  if  it  were  not  the  fashion.  There 
•was  not  much  color  in  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  were 
larger  than  usual,  but  to  the  squire  and  the  children  ehe 
wai  very  beautiful,  moving  among  them  as  their  house- 


U4  AT  BEECHWOOD. 

hold  goddess,  and  always  speaking  so  lovingly  and 
kind, 

Onoe,  and  only  once,  there  came  a  letter  from  Dr. 
West, — a  friendly  letter,  which  any  one  might  read,  and 
which  said  that  he  was  at  Marysville,  with  his  mother, 
whose  health  was  greatly  improved. 

"  I  like  the  country  much,"  he  wrote,  "  and  if  I  had 
with  me  a  few  of  my  Eastern  friends  I  should  be  willing 
to  settle  here  for  life ;  but,  as  it  is,  I  find  myself  looking 
forward  eagerly  to  the  time  when  I  shall  return  and  meet 
you  all  again." 

This  passage  Squire  John  read  twice,  and  then  glanced 
Again  at  the  "  My  Dear  Dora  "  with  which  the  letter 
commenced. 

"  The  doctor  is  very  affectionate,"  he  said,  "  calling 
you  '  Dear  Dora,'  though  perhaps  he  has  a  right,  for  I 
remember  thinking  he  admired  you." 

Dora  was  bending  over  Daisy,  whom  she  was  rocking 
to  sleep,  and  he  did  not  see  her  blushes  as  she  re 
plied  : 

"  That  is  a  very  common  way  of  addressing  people,  and 
means  nothing  at  all." 

Perhaps  the  squire  believed  this,  but  he  was  quite 
absent-minded  the  remainder  of  the  day,  and  in  the 
evening  was  twice  checkmated  by  Dora,  when  his  usual 
Wfttom  had  been  to  checkmate  her. 

Pora's  first  intention  was  to  answer  the  doctor's  letter 


Ai   BEECHWOOD.  145 

at  once,  but  sickness  among  the  children  prevented  her 
from  doing  so,  and  when  she  was  at  last  free  to  write,  the 
disposition  had  in  a  measure  left  her,  and  so  the  answer 
fox  which  the  doctor  waited  so  anxiously  was  not  seat. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IN   THE   SPRING. 

ItJT  the  house  at  Beech-wood  the  May  floweri 
were  blooming,  and  in  the  maple-trees  the  birds 
were  building  their  nests,  cooing  lovingly  to 
each  other  as  they  did  so,  and  seeming  all  unconscious  of 
the  young  heart  which  within  the  doors  felt  that  never 
before  had  there  come  to  it  a  spring  so  full  of  sorrow  and 
harrowing  dread.  Jessie  and  Bell  Verner  were  both 
there  now,  and  Jessie  had  brought  two  immense  trunks 
and  a  hat-box,  as  if  her  intention  was  to  spend  the  entire 
summer.  She  was  just  as  merry  and  hoydenish  as  of  old, 
romping  with  the  children  in  the  grass  and  on  the  nurs 
ery  floor,  herself  the  veriest  child  among  them,  while  her 
ringing  laugh  woke  all  the  echoes  of  the  place  and  made 
even  the  Squire  join  in  it,  and  try  to  act  young  again. 

Both  Jessie  and  Bell  noted  the  change  in  Dora,  and 
Jessie  asked  her  outright  what  it  was  that  made  her 
look  sc  frightened,  as  if  constantly  in  fear  of  something , 
but  Dora  could  not  tell  what  she  feared,  for  she  had 
scarcely  dared  to  define  tc  herself  the  meaning  of  Squ-re 
Russell's  manner  toward  her.  A  stranger  would 


IN  THE  SPRING.  147 

perceived  no  difference  in  his  treatment  of  her  now  and 
when  his  wife  was  living,  but  Dora  felt  the  change,  and  it 
almost  drove  her  wild,  making  her  one  day  sharply  re 
buke  the  little  Daisy  for  calling  her  mamma. 

"  I  am  not  your  mother,"  she  said  fiercely.  "  Your 
mamma  is  dead,  and  I  am  only  Auntie." 

The  child  looked  up  in  surprise,  but  called  her  mam 
ma  just  the  same,  while  Dora's  eyelids  closed  tightly  over 
the  hot  tears  she  thus  kept  from  falling.  That  day 
when  Johnnie  came  home  from  school  at  dinner-time  he 
showed  unmistakable  marks  of  having  been  in  a  fight, 
and  when  questioned  by  his  father  as  to  the  cause  of  his 
black  eye,  broke  out  furiously  : 

"  I've  been  a  lickin?  Bill  Carter,  and  I'll  do  it  again  if 
he  ever  tells  such  stuff  about  you  !  Why,  he  said  you're 
a  going  to  get  married  to  that  ill-begotten,  shoulder-shot- 
ten  snap-dragon  of  a  Miss  Dutton !  I  told  him  'twas  the 
biggest  lie,  and  then  he  said  it  wasn't,  that  it  was  true, 
and  she  was  coming  here  to  be  our  step-mother ;  that  sh* 
would  cut  off  'Tish's  curls,  spank  Ben  and  Burt  twice  t. 
day,  shake  Daisy  into  shoe-strings,  and  make  Jim  and  me 
toe  the  mark, — the  hatefvl !  " 

"  She  ain't,  she  shan't, — old  nasty  Dutton,"  and  fiery 
Ben  shook  his  tiny  fist  at  an  imaginary  bugbear  who  waa 
to  spank  him  twice  a  day. 

•  Jessie  laughed  aloud.  Bell  looked  amused,  Dora  di» 
turbed,  »nd  the  Squire  very  red,  as  he  said  to  his  son  : 


148  TN  THE  SPRING. 

"You  should  not  mind  such  gossip,  or  allow  jour- 
self  to  get  into  a  passion.  Time  enough  to  rebel  when 
the  step-mother  comes.  Now  go  to  your  room  and  bathe 
your  eye." 

Johnnie  obeyed,  muttering  as  he  went : 

*' There's  only  one  person  I'd  have  for  a  step 
mother  any  how,  and  that's  Aunt  Dora.  Guy,  wouldn't 
I  raise  hob  with  anybody  else !  " 

"  John,  leave  instantly !  "  the  Squire  said  sternly,  while 
liis  face  -colored  crimson,  as  did  Dora's  also,  making  Bell 
and  JftOdie  glance  curiously  at  each  other,  as  both  thought 
of  t&e  same  thing. 

In  their  own  room,  after  dinner,  they  discussed  to 
gether  the  possibility  of  Dora's  becoming  what  Johnnie 
wished  her  to  be,  Bell  scouting  the  idea  as  preposterous, 
and  Jessie  insisting  that  a  girl  might  love  Squire  Russell 
well  enough  to  take  him  with  all  his  children. 

"  Not  that  I  think  Dora  will  do  so,"  she  said,  (t  for  I 
fancy  he  is  not  as  much  to  her  taste,  even,  as  he  is  to 
mine ;  and  I  guess  I'd  jump  in  the  creek  sooner  than 
marry  an  old  widower  with  half  a  dozen  children." 

What  the  two  sisters  were  discussing  privately  in 
their  room  was  talked  openly  in  the  village,  scone  of 
the  people  arguing  that  Dora  could  not  do  better, 
while  all  agreed  that  for  the  Squire  it  would  be  a  match 
every  way  desirable  both  for  his  own  and  his  children's 
sake.  To  the  Squire  himself  the  story  was  told  one  dayf 


72V  THE  SPBINQ.  149 

the  teller  hinting  that  the  matter  was  entirely  settled, 
and  asking  when  the  marriage  would  take  place. 

With  some  jocose  reply,  the  Squire  rode  away,  going 
round  to  Margaret's  grave,  and  thence  back  to  his  home, 
where  the  evening  lights  were  shining,  and  where  Dora, 
with  Daisy  in  her  arms,  sat  alone  in  the  back  parlor, 
Bell  and  Jessie  having  accepted  an  invitation  which  she 
was  obliged  to  decline  on  account  of  a  bad  headache. 

There  were  strange  thoughts  stirring  in  the  Squire'a 
breast  that  night,  thoughts  which  had  haunted  him  for 
weeks  and  months,  aye,  since  Margaret  died,  for  he  could 
not  forget  her  words. 

"  You  need  not  wait  long.  You  and  Dora  are  above 
people's  gossip,  and  it  will  be  so  much  better  for  the 
children." 

This  was  what  Margaret  had  said  to  him  that  night 
when  misapprehending  her  sister  just  as  she  was  misap- 
p'ehended,  she  had  told  him : 

"  I  have  talked  with  Dora,  and  she  has  promised  to 
take  my  place." 

At  first  he  had  been .  satisfied  with  matters  as  they 
were,  and  had  said  that  he  never  could  marry  and  love 
again.  But  gradually  there  had  crept  into  life  another 
feeling,  which  prompted  him  to  watch  Dora  constantly 
as  she  moved  about  his  house  ;  to  miss  her  when  she  wai 
away, — to  think  of  her  the  last  at  night  as  well  as  first  in 
the  morning, — to  wonder,  with  a  harassing  jealousy,  if  Dr 


150  J3T  TEE  SPRING. 

West  cared  for  Dora,  or  if  she  cared  for  him.  Nc,  sLft 
did  not,  he  thought,  and  made  himself  believe  it,  else  he 
had  never  said  to  her  what  he  did  that  night,  when,  with 
Daisy  in  her  arms,  she  sat  wholly  in  his  power,  and  was 
obliged  to  listen  to  what  was  not  unexpected,  but  which, 
nevertheless,  fell  like  a  thunderbolt  upon  her,  turning  her 
into  stone,  and  making  her  grow  faint  and  sick,  just  aa 
she  did  at  Saratoga,  when  the  first  suspicion  dawned  upon 
her  that  some  day  John  Russell  would  speak  to  her  what 
fee  was  speaking  now,  with  one  hand  on  her  shoulder  and 
tike  other  on  Daisy's  golden  head.  It  was  a  kind,  true, 
fatherly  heart  he  offered  her,  and  she  felt  that  he  meant 
it  all.  He  cast  no  reflections  upon  his  departed  wife, — 
he  merely  said : 

"  You  knew  Margaret  as  well  as  I.  She  was  not,  per 
haps,  as  even-tempered  as  a  more  healthy  person  would 
have  been,  but  I  loved  her,  remembering  always  what  she 
was  when  I  took  her  from  her  home.  You  were  a  little 
girl,  then,  Dora,  and  I  never  dreamed  that  I  should 
some  time  be  sueing  for  your  hand  just  as  I  had  sued  for 
Margaret's. " 

Then  he  pleaded  for  his  children,  who  loved  her  so 
much ;  would  she  be  their  mother,  just  as  she  had  prom 
ised  Margaret  she  would  ?  Then  Dora  roused  herself, 
and  the  face  which  met  the  Squire's,  view  made  his  heart 
beat  faster  as  he  doubted  what  it  portended. 

"  I  did  not  think  Margaret  meant  what  you  ask,"  Dora 


IN  THE  SPUING. 

•aid,  her  words  coming  gaspingly.  "  I  thought  she  meant 
care  for  them  as  I  have  tried  to  do,  and  will  do  still.  I'll 
stay  with  you,  John.  I'll  be  your  housekeeper,  but  don't 
ask  me  to  be  your  wife.  I  can't;  I'm  too  young  for 
you  ;  I'm, — O  John !  O  Margaret !  "  and  here  the 
voice  broke  down  entirely,  while  Dora  sobbed  convol 
sively. 

Margaret,  too,  had  said  she  could  not  be  his  wife  when 
he  asked  her.  She,  too,  had  said  she  was  too  young,  and 
cried,  but  hers  was  not  like  Dora's  crying,  and  Squire 
Kussell  saw  the  difference,  feeling  perplexed,  but  never 
suspected  the  truth.  It  was  natural  for  girls  to  cry,  he 
thought,  when  they  received  an  offer  of  marriage,  and  so, 
with  both  hands  on  her  shoulder,  he  pleaded  again,  but 
this  time  for  himself,  telling  her  in  words  which  nis  true 
love  made  eloquent,  how  dear  she  was  to  him,  dearer,  if 
possible,  than  his  early  choice,  the  beautiful  Margaret. 
And  Dora  believed  him,  for  she  knew  he  was  incapable  of 
deception,  and  that  made  her  pain  harder  to  bear. 

•'  If  I  had  supposed  you  cared  for  any  one  else,"  he 
said,  "  I  should  not  have  sought  you,  but  I  did  not.  Dr. 
West  wrote  to  you,  I  know,  and  I  was  foolish  enough  to 
wish  he  had  not  called  you  his  dear  Dora,  but  you  did 
not  answer  him,  and  of  course  there  is  but  one  conclusion 
k>  be  drawn  from  that.  You  do  not  care  for  him,  nor  ha 
for  you?" 

He  put  this  to  her  interrogatively,  but  Dora  could  not 


152  IN  TEE  SPUING. 

•peak.  Once  she  thought  to  tell  him  what  there  was  be 
tween  her  and  Dr.  West,  but  something  kept  her  silent, 
and  so  in  f>erfect  good  faith,  kind,  honest,  truthful  John 
kept  on  until  she  answered  : 

"Please  leave  me  now;  I  must  think,  and  I  am  M 
stunned  and  bewildered.  I'll  answer  another  time.*' 

Squire  Russell  was  far  too  good-natured  to  stay  longer 
if  she  did  not  wish  it,  and  stooping  down  he  kissed  his 
sleeping  child,  and  said  : 

"  Let  me  kiss  baby's  auntie,  too  ?  " 

Dora  offered  no  resistance,  and  he  touched  her  forehead 
respectfully,  and  then  quitted  the  room.  He  had  kissed 
her  many  times  when  Margaret  was  living,  but  no  kiss 
had  ever  burned  her  as  this  one  did,  for  she  knew  it  was 
not  a  brother's  kiss,  arid  with  a  sensation  of  loathing  she 
passed  her  hand  over  the  place,  and  then  wiped  it  with 
her  handkerchief,  just  as  a  rustling  sound  met  her  ear,  and 
the  next  moment  there  was  another  pleader  kneeling  a* 
her  feet,  Johnnie,  who  had  overheard  a  part  of  his  father's 
wooing,  and  who  took  it  up  just  where  his  sire  had 
left  it ;  his  stormy,  impetuous  arguments  bearing  Dora 
completely  away  from  herself,  so  that  she  hardly  knew 
what  she  did  or  said. 

"  You.  will  be  father's  wife,  A  ant  Dora  ;  you  will,  you 
must !  "  Johnnie  began.  "  I've  prayed  for  it  every  sin 
gle  day  since  I  heard  that  stuff  about  old  Dutton.  IV« 
gone  to  mother's  grave  and  knelt  down  there,  asking  tha* 


IN  THE  SPRING.  153 

it  might  be.  Jim  and  'Tish  pray  so,  too,  for  ]  «x*id  'en 
to,  and  I  should  make  Ben  and  Burt,  only  I  ku  *w  they'd 
tell  you ;  and  Auntie,  you  will !  Father's  older  than  you 
»  lot,  I  s'pose,  but  ho  is  so  good,  and  was  so  kind  to 
mother,  even  when  she  plagued  him.  I  never  told,  but 
once  after  you  went  to  Morrisville,  she  got  awful,  and 
Jammed  him  the  wust  kind, — told  him  he  was  fat,  and 
pussy,  and  awkward,  and  she  was  always  ashamed  of  him 
at  watering-places,  and  a  sight  more.  At  last  she  left 
the  room,  and  poor  papa  put  his  head  right  in  my  lap 
and  cried  out  loud.  I  cried  too,  and  said  to  him : 

'«  Let's  lick  her :  I'U  help.' 

"  But  he  wouldn't  hear  a  word.     Says  he : 

" '  Hush,  my  boy ;  she's  your  mother  and  my  wife. 
She  is  not  as  she  used  to  be.  She's  sick  and  nervous.' 

"  And  when  I  asked  the  difference  between  ugly  and 
nervous,  he  made  me  stop,  and  was  just  as  kind  to  her  at 
supper-time  as  ever.  Tell  me  such  a  man  won't  make  a 
good  husband!  He'll  be  splendid,  and  he's  handsome?" 
than  he  was, — he  has  lost  that  look  as  if  he  was  afraid 
something  was  after  him,  a  henpecked  look,  Clem  called 
it.  Poor  father;  he  has  had  so  little  comfort,  you  must 
make  him  happy,  Auntie;  you  will,  and  you'll  make 
as  all  so  good.  You  know  how  like  Cain  we  behaA  e  with 
out  you,  and  how  we  all  mind  when  you  tell  us  what  it 
right.  Will  you  be  father's  wife  and  help  us  grow  uj 
good?" 


154  IN  THE  SPRING. 

He  had  her  face  between  his  warm  hands,  and  wai 
looking  at  her  so  earnestly,  that  for  his  sake  Dora  could 
almost  have  answered  yes,  but  thoughts  of  what  being  hit 
father's  wife  involved  chilled  her  through  and  through, 
and  she  answered  him : 

"  Johnnie,  I  do  not  believe  I  can." 

For  an  instant  the  boy's  black  eyes  blazed  fiercely  at 
her,  and  then  he  angrily  exclaimed, ."  I'll  go  to  ruin,  Just 
as  fast  as  I  can  go !  I'll  smoke  to-morrow,  if  I  live,  and 
teach  Jim  and  Ben  to  do  so  too !  I'll  swear,  and  when 
the  circus  comes  next  week  I'll  run  away  to  that,  and 
take  'Tish  with  me ;  I'll  gamble ;  I'll  drink,  and  when 
I'm  brought  home  drunker'n  a  fool,  you'll  know  it  is  your 
work !  " 

He  looked  like  a  young  tiger  as  he  stood  uttering 
these  terrible  threats,  and  Dora  quailed  before  his  flash 
ing  eyes,  feeling  that  much  he  had  said  was  in  earnest 
She  did  not  fear  his  swearing,  or  gambling,  or  drinking, 
for  the  present,  at  least,  but  he  might  not  always  act  Ma 
best ;  he  might  grow  surly  and  hard  and  unmanageable, 
even  by  hei,  unless  she  yielded  to  his  request,  and  thia 
she  couldn't  do. 

"  Johnnie,"  she  began,  and  something  in  her  voice 
quieted  the  excited  boy,  "  would  you  have  me  marry  your 
father  when  I  do  not  love  him,  and  just  the  thought  ol 
being  his  wife  makes  me  almost  sick  ?  " 

Johnnie  waa  not  old    enough    to    comprehend    hei 


IN  THE  SPRING  155 

oteaning.  He  only  felt  that  it  was  not  a  very  bad  thing 
to  be  the  wife  of  a  man  as  good  as  his  father,  and  he  an- 
*swered  her,  "  You  do  love  him  well  enough,  or  you  will, 
Mid  he  so  affectionate.  "Why  he  used  to  hug  and  kisa 
mother  every  day,  even  when  she  was  crosser  than  fury 
Of  course  then  he'll  hug  you  most  to  death." 

"  Oh — h,"  Dora  groaned,  the  tone  of  her  voice  so  in 
dicative  of  disgust  that  even  Johnnie  caught  a  new  idea, 
which  he  afterwards  acted  upon ;  but  he  would  not  yield 
his  point :  Dora  should  be  his  mother,  and  he  continued 
the  siege  until,  wearied  out  with  his  arguments,  Dora  per 
emptorily  bade  him  leave  her  while  she  could  think  in 
quiet. 

Oh,  that  long,  terrible  thinking  which  brought  on  so 
racking  a  headache  that  Dora  was  not  seen  in  the  parlor 
on  the  day  following,  but  lay  upstairs  in  her  own  room, 
where,  with  the  bolted  door  between  her  and  the  world 
outside,  she  met  and  battled  with  what  seemed  her  des 
tiny  !  Oue  by  one  every  incident  connected  with  Mar 
garet's  death  came  back  to  her,  and  she  knew  now  what 
the  questionings  meant,  far  better  than  she  did  then, 
while  she  half  expected  the  dead  sister  to  rise  before  her 
and  reproach  her  for  shrinking  from  her  duty.  Then  the 
children  came  up,  a  powerful  argument  swaying  her  in 
the  direction  of  S  juire  flussell.  She  could  do  them  good ; 
•he  could  train  them  so  much  better  than  another,  and 
John,  if  she  ref-ised  him,  would  assuredly  bring  anothet 


156  IN  THE  SPRING. 

there  to  rule  and  govern  them.  These  were  the  argu 
ments  in  favor  of  John's  suit,  while  on  the  other  side  a 
mighty  barrier  was  interposed  to  keep  her  from  the  sacri 
fice.  Her  love  for  Dr.  West,  and  the  words  spoken  to 
her  at  Anna's  grave ;  and  was  she  not  virtually  engaged 
to  him? 

"  Yes, — oh  yes,  I  am ! "  she  cried,  and  then  there 
came  over  her  all  the  doubts  which  had  so  tortured  her 
since  that  time  in  the  Morrisville  cemetery. 

Had  he  not  spoken  hastily  and  repented  afterwards  ? 
His  continued  silence  on  the  subject  would  seem  so ;  and 
why  did  he  not  write  to  her  just  as  did  he  to  Jessie,  who, 
since  coining  to  Beechwood,  had  received  a  letter  from 
him  which  contained  no  mention  of  her,  but  was  full  of 
the  light,  bantering  matter  in  which  he  knew  Jessie  do 
lighted.  Dora  had  heard  Jessie  say  she  was  going  w> 
answer  the  letter  that  very  day;  and  suddenly,  like  a 
dawn  of  hope,  there  flashed  over  her  the  determinative 
that  she,  too,  would  write  and  tell  him  of  Squire  Rus 
sell's  offer ;  and  if  he  loved  her  still  he  would  come  to 
save  her,  or  he  would  write,  telling  her  again  how  dear 
she  was  to  him,  and  that  he  alone  must  call  her  his  wife. 

"  Yes,  I'll  do  it,"  Dora  whispered ;  "  I  know  he  is  at 
San  Francisco,  for  Jessie  dii<.<cts  there  j  I'll  write  to 
day.  It  shall  go  in  the  same  mail  with  hers.  I'll  wait 
two  months  for  his  reply,  and  then,  if  he  answers 
and  ignores  me,  I'll —  ' 


IN  THE  SPRING.  15? 

Dora  set  her  teeth  firmly  together,  and  her  breath 
dune  hurriedly,  as  she  paused  a  moment  ere  she  addedj 
*  I'll  marry  John." 

And  so  with  a  throbbing  head  Dora  wrote  to  Dr 
West,  telling  him  of  the  proposal  and  asking  what  h« 
thought  of  it.  This  was  all  she  meant  the  letter  to 
mean,  for  her  maidenly  reserve  would  not  suffer  her  to 
betray  her  real  motive  if  she  knew  it,  but  it  was  more 
like  a  pleading  cry  for  help,  more  like  a  wail  of  anguish 
for  one  she  loved  to  save  her  from  a  fate  she  had  not 
strength  to  resist  alone,  than  like  a  mere  asking  of  ad 
vice.  The  letter  was  finished,  and  just  after  dark,  when 
sure  no  one  could  see  her,  Dora  stole  from  the  house 
unobserved,  and  hastening  to  the  office,  dropped  into  the 
box  the  missive  of  so  much  importance  to  her. 

"  It  is  sure  to  go  with  Jessie's,"  she  said,  &d  she 
wended  her  way  back,  "so  if  hers  is  received  J  shall 
know  that  mine  was  also." 

Alas !  Jessie's  had  been  written  the  previoua  night, 
after  that  young  lady's  return  from  her  visit,  an<l  while 
Dora's  letter  was  lying  quietly  in  the  box  at  Be<  oh  wood 
awaiting  the  morning  mail,  Jessie's  was  miles  on  its  way 
to  New  York  and  the  steamer  which  would  take  it  to 
California  a  week  in  advance  of  the  other.  But  Dora 
did  not  know  this,  neither  did  she  know  that  it  con- 
taiued  the  following  paragraph : 

"There  is  no  news,  except  the   rximor  thax  Squirt 


|58  W  THE  SPRING. 

Hussell  will  marry  his  pretty  sister-in-law.  Bell  wun'* 
ftelieve  a  word  of  it,  but  some  things  look  like  it.  Dora 
is  so  queer.  I  had  picked  her  out  for  you,  and  believa 
now  that  she  likes  you,  though  when  your  name  is  men 
tioned,  she  bites  her  words  off  so  short  and  crisp  that  I 
am  confounded.  She  is  a  splendid  girl,  and  will  make  a 
grand  wife,  to  say  nothing  of  step-mother." 

Little  did  Jessie  suspect  the  harm  these  few  compara 
tively  harmless  lines  would  cause,  and  little  did  Dora 
suspect  it  either,  as  with  a  load  of  pain  lifted  from  her 
heart  and  consequently  from  her  head,  she  sat  down  by 
her  open  window  and  followed  with  her  mind  her  letter's 
course  to  far-off  California,  and  then  imagined  the  quick 
response  it  would  bring  back,  and  which  would  make  her 
so  happy. 

"  Johnnie  must  be  the  medium  between  Squire  Rus 
sell  and  me,"  she  said.  "  I'll  tell  him  to-morrow  that 
his  father  must  wait  for  my  definite  reply  at  least  six 
weeks,  and  possibly  two  months.  At  the  end  of  that 
time  I  shall  know  for  sure,  and  if  the  doctor  does  not 
care,  there  will  be  a  kind  of  desperate  pleasure  in  marry 
ing  my  brother." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

WAITING   FOR   THE   ANSWEB. 

|S  Dora  reached  this  conclusion  thtre  came  • 
well-known  knock  upon  the  door,  and  unfasten 
ing  the  bolt  she  admitted  Johnnie,  who  had 
been  up  many  times  that  day,  but  had  not  before  bee»» 
permitted  to  enter. 

"  O  Auntie,"  he  cried,  "  you  are  better  and  I'm  glad. 
I  didn't  mean  what  I  said  about  swearing,  and  drinking, 
and  smoking,  and  I  was  so  mad  at  myself  that  I  teased 
Ben  and  Burt  on  purpose  till  they  got  hoppin',  and  then 
I  lay  still  while  both  little  Arabs  pitched  into  me.  My ! 
didn't  their  feet  fly  like  drumsticks  as  they  kicked  and 
struck,  and  pulled  my  hair ;  but  when  Ben  got  the  big 
carving-fork,  I  concluded  I'd  been  punished  enough,  and 
so  deserted  the  field  !  But,  Auntie,  I  do  wish  you  could 
love  father.  He  has  looked  so  sorry  to-day,  kind  of 
white  about  the  mouth,  and  his  hand  trembled  this  noon 
nrhen  he  carved  the  turkey.  Won't  you,  Auntie  ?  I've 
prayed  ten  times  this  afternoon  that  you  might,  and  I 
begin  to  have  faith  that  you  will.  Dr.  West,  who  used 
to  talk  to  me  BO  good  last  summer  when  I  was  in  hit 


160  WAITING  FOR  THE  ANSWER. 

Sunday-school  class,  said  we  must  have  faith  'Jhat  God 
woulc  hear  us." 

Dora  drew  a  long,  sad  sigh,  as  she  wished  she  too  had 
been  taught  of  Dr.  West  to  pray  differently  from  what 
Bhe  knew  she  did.  Smoothing  back  John's  soft,  dark 
hair,  she  said : 

"  Johnnie,  girls  cannot  make  a  love  in  a  minute,  and 
this  came  so  suddenly  upon  me,  I  must  have  time  to  think, 
— six  weeks  or  two  months,  and  then  I  will  decide.  Will 
you  tell  your  father  this  for  me  ?  Tell  him  I'm  sorry  to 
make  him  feel  badly, — that  I  like  him  and  always  shall 
even  if  I  am  not  his  wife — that  I  know  how  good,  ho^ 
generou  she  is, — that  he  will  wait  until  I  know  my  owi 
mind  better,  and  then  if  I  cannot  be  bis,  be  must  not 
mind  it." 

"  I'll  tell  hiin,"  Johnnie  said,  while  Dora  continued  : 

"  And  Johnnie,  perhaps  it  had  better  be  understood 
that  nothing  is  to  be  said  about  it  in  the  mean  time,— 
nothing  to  me  by  your  father," 

"  Yes,  I  know,  I  see.  I'll  fix  it,"  Johnnie  answered 
"  I'll  go  to  father  now,"  and  stooping  down,  he  kissed  his 
aunt  tenderly,  then  suddenly  asked,  as  he  locked  into  her 
eyes,  "  You  don't  mind  my  kissing  you,  do  you  ?  That 
don't  make  you  sick  ?  " 

"  No,  oh  no  !  "  she  answered,  and  Johnnie  departed  on 
bis  strange  errand. 

Squire  Russell  sat  in  his  office  or  reading-room,  pre 


WAITING  FOR  1HE  ANSWER  16 j 

tending  to  look  over  his  evening  paper,  but  his  thoughts 
were  really  upstairs  with  Dora,  whom  he  had  not  seen 
that  day,  and  whose  illness  troubled  him  greatly,  for  he 
rightly  associated  it  with  his  proposal  of  the  previous1 
night.  Squire  Russell  loved  Dora  with  a  great,  warm, 
sheltering  love,  which  would  shield  her  from  all  harm, 
and  unselfishly  yield  to  her  everything,  but  he  had  not 
the  nice,  quick  perception  of  Dr.  West,  and  had  he  been 
younger  he  could  never  have  satisfied  the  wants  of  her 
higher  nature  as  could  the  rival  whose  existence  he  did 
not  suspect.  But  he  loved  her  very  much.  He  must 
have  her.  Ho  could  not  live  without  her,  he  thought 
and  womanish  man  that  he  was,  a  tear  was  gathering  iri 
his  eyes  when  Johnnie  entered  the  room  abruptly,  and 
locking  the  door,  came  and  stood  beside  him. 

"  What  do  you  wish,  my  boy  ? "  the  Squire  saic* 
kindly,  for  he  was  never  impatient  with  his  children. 

Johnnie  hesitated,  beginning  to  feel  that  his  father's 
love  affair  was  a  delicate  matter  for  him  to  meddle  with. 

"  Confound  it,"  he  began  at  last,  *'  I  may  as  well  spit 
it  out,  and  then  let  you  knock  me  down,  or  lick  me,  or 
anything  you  like.  Father,  I  heard  what  you  said  to 
A.untie  last  night,  and  what  she  said  to  you,  and  after 
you  was  gone  I  took  the  floor  and  beat  you  all  to  smash. 
I  said  she  must  be  my  mother, — she  should  be  my  mother, 
tnd  all  that,  and  set  you  up,  I  tell  j  ou,  till  you'd  hardly 
know  yourself  from  my  description.  To-night  Pve  seen 


162  WAITING  FOR  THE  ANSWER. 

her  again, — have  just  come  from  her  room  to  toll  yoi 
something  she  bade  me  tell." 

Squire  Russell  had  turned  very  white  at  first,  feeling 
Indignant  at  his  son  for  presuming  to  interfere,  but  this 
feeling  had  disappeared  now,  and  he  listened  eagerly  while 
Johnnie  continued : 

"  She  says  its  sudden ;  that  she  can't  make  a  love  in  a 
minute ;  that  she  must  have  six  weeks  or  two  months  to 
decide,  and  then  she  will  tell  you  sure,  and,  father,  you'll 
wait ;  I  know  you  will,  and, — and, — well,  I  guess  I'd  hold 
my  tongue, — that  is,  I  wouldn't  keep  teasing  her,  nor  say 
a  word ;  just  let  her  go  her  own  gait,  and  above  all  I 
wouldn't  act  lovin'  like,  for  fear  she'd  up  and  vomit. 
She  don't  mind  me  kissing  her,  because  I've  no  beard,  I 
lon't  shave,  nor  carry  a  cane.  I'm  a  boy,  and  you  are  a 
whiskered  old  chap.  I  guess  that's  the  difference  between 
us.  Father,  you'll  wait  ?  " 

Squire  Russell  could  not  forbear  a  smile  at  his  son'a 
novel  reasoning,  but  he  was  not  angry,  and  it  made  hia 
child  seem  nearer,  now  that  both  shared  the  same  secret, 
and  were  interested  in  the  same  cause.  Yes,  he  would 
wait  two,  three,  or  four  months  if  Dora  liked,  and  mean 
time  things  should  continue  as  usual  in  the  household. 

"And  afterward,  father  ? "  Johnnie  asked.  "  How 
about  that  ?  If  auntie  says  no,  she'll  mr an  it,  and  you 
wcn't  raise  a  rumpus,  will  you  ?  You'll  grin  and  bear  it 
like  a  man  ?  " 


WAITING  FOR  TEE  ANSWER.  163 

Yes,  the  Squire  would  do  all  bis  son  required,  and  be 
fore  Dora  retired  for  the  night,  a  bit  of  paper  was  pushed 
under  her  door,  on  which  was  written  : 

"The  governor  is   O.  K.     He'll  wait  and  so  will  I 
and  if  you  must  say  no,  he  won't  raise  hob,  but  7" will. 
I  tell  you  now  I'll  raise  the  very  roof !     Don't  say  no, 
Auntie,  don't ! 

"  Yours  Very  Respectfully  and  Regretful  /, 
"  JOHN  H.  RUSSELL." 

It  was  rather  embarrassing  next  morning  at  the  break 
fast  table,  but  Johnnie  threw  himself  into  the  gap,  talking 
loudly  and  rapidly  to  his  father  of  the  war  meeting  to  be 
held  that  night,  wishing  he  was  a  man,  so  he  could  enlist, 
and  predicting,  as  did  many  a  foolish  one  at  that  period, 
the  spring  of  '61,  that  the  immense  force  of  75,000, 
called  for  by  the  President,  would  subjugate  the  South 
at  once. 

The  Squire  talked  very  little,  and  never  once  glanced 
at  Dora,  who  in  her  heart  blessed  both  Jessie  and 
Johnnie,  the  latter  for  engaging  his  father's  attention  and 
the  former  for  talking  so  constantly  to  herself  and 
Bell. 

Dora  was  very  white  and  nervous,  but  this  was  imputed 
to  her  illness  of  the  previous  day,  and  so  neither  Bell  nor 
Jessie  dreamed  of  what  had  passed  between  her  and  their 


164  'WAITING  FOR  THE 

host,  or  how  her  heart  was  aching  with  the  terrible  feai 
of  what  might  be  in  store  for  her. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  the  Misses  Verner  should 
remain  at  Beechwood  for  a  long  time,  and  as  Bell  thought 
four  weeks  came  under  that  definition  she  began  to  talk 
of  returning  home  as -early  as  the  first  of  June ;  but  with 
a  look  of  terror  which  startled  both  the  girls,  Dora 
begged  of  them  to  stay. 

"  Don't  leave  me  alone  ! "  she  cried,  clasping  Bell's 
hand  pleadingly.  (l  I  shall  die  if  you  do  1  Oh,  stay, — 
you  would  if  you  knew — " 

She  did  not  say  what,  and  Bell  gazed  at  her  wonder- 
ingly,  but  decided  at  last  to  stay  a  few  weeks  longer. 
Nothing  could  please  Jessie  better,  for  she  did  not  par 
ticularly  like  Morrisville,  and  she  did  like  Beechwood 
very  much.  She  liked  the  lake  view,  the  hills,  and  the 
people,  and  she  liked  the  six  noisy,  frolicsome  children, 
with  their  good-humored  sire,  who  treated  her  much  as 
he  would  have  treated  a  playful,  teasing  child  not  hia 
own,  but  a  guest.  Many  were  the  gambols  she  had  with 
Ben  and  Burt,  and  little  Daisy,  who  loved  her  almost  aa 
much  as  they  loved  Dora,  while  upon  the  matter-of-fact 
Squire  she  played  off  many  a  saucy  trick,  keeping  him 
constantly  on  the  alert  with  plots  and  conspiracies,  and 
eo  making  the  time  seem  comparatively  short,  while  he 
waited  for  Dora's  decision.  But  to  Dora  there  waa 
nothing  which  brought  comfort  or  diverted  her  for  a 


WAITING  FOR  THE  ANSWER.  165 

moment  from  the  agonizing  suspense  which  grew  more 
and  more  dreadful  as  the  days  went  swiftly  by,  bringing 
no  answer  to  the  letter  sent  to  Dr.  West. 

"Is  it  anything  in  particular  you  are  expecting?" 
Johnnie  asked  one  day,  when  she  turned  so  white  and 
shivered,  as  he  returned  from  the  post-office,  with  letters 
for  all  except  herself. 

"  Yes, — no !  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  I  expect,"  she 
answered,  and  leaning  her  head  on  Johnnie's  shoulder, 
•ohe  wept  silently,  while  the  boy  tried  to  comfort  her, 
«nd  became  from  that  moment  almost  as  anxious  that  she 
should  have  a  letter  as  she  seemed  herself. 

Regularly  each  day  at  mail-time  he  was  at  the  office, 
and  if  there  chanced  to  be  a  letter  for  Dora,  as  there 
sometimes  was,  running  to  her  eagerly,  but  saying  always 
to  himself  as  the  weary,  disappointed  look  remained  the 
same: 

"  The  right  one  has  not  come." 

No,  the  right  one  had  not  come,  and  now  it  was  more 
than  seven  weeks  since  the  night  when  Dr.  West  had 
been  written  to. 

Bell  and  Jessie  were  really  going  home  at  last,  and 
their  trunks  stood  in  the  hall  ready  for  the  early  morning 
train.  Dora  had  exhausted  every  argument  for  a  longer 
stay,  but  Bell  felt  that  they  must  go. 

"  They  would  come  again  in  the  autumn,  perhaps,  or 
Dora  should  visit  them.  She  would  need  rest  by  thai 


166  WAITING  FOR  THE  ANSWER. 

time,  sure/'  Bell  said,  and  Dora  shuddered  as  she  thought 
how  she  might  never  know  rest  or  happiness  again,  save 
as  she  found  them  in  the  discharge  of  what  she  was  be 
ginning  to  believe  was  her  imperative  duty. 

"  Letters  !  letters !  "  shouted  Johnnie,  running  up  th* 
walk,  his  hand  full  of  documents,  one  of  which  he  was 
closely  inspecting.  Spelling  out  the  place  where  it  waa 
mailed,  he  exclaimed,  as  he  entered  the  room,  "  That's 
from  the  doctor,  for  it  says  '  San  Francisco.' >: 

Instantly  both  Jessie  and  Dora  started  forward  to 
claim  it,  the  hot  blood  dyeing  the  cheeks  of  the  latter,  but 
subsiding  instantly,  and  leaving  only  a  livid  hue  as  Je^ 
sie  took  the  letter,  saying : 

"  It  is  for  me." 

Sinking  back  in  her  chair,  Dora  pressed  her  handa 
tightly  together,  as  Jessie  broke  the  seal  and  read,  partly 
to  herself  and  partly  aloud,  that  message  from  Dr. 
West. 

"  Is  still  in  San  Francisco,  at  the  hotel,  which  ia 
crowded  with  guests,  and  will  compare  very  favorably 
with  the  best  houses  in  New  York  City.  Begins  to 
think  of  coming  home  in  the  autumn.  Mother's  health 
improved.  Was  pleased  to  get  my  letter,"  and  so  on. 

This  was  the  substance  of  what  Jessie  read,  until  she 
reached  a  point  where  she  stopped  suddenly,  and  seemed 
to  be  considering;  then  "turning  to  Johnnie,  she  asked 
him  to  do  for  her  some  trifling  service,  which  would  take 


WAITING  FOR  THE  ANSWER.  161 

him  from  the  room.     When  he  was  gone,  she  said  to 
Dora: 

"  Maybe  you'll  scold,  but  it  cannot  now  be  helped.  In 
toy  letter  to  Dr.  West,  I  said,  or  hinted,  at  what  every 
body  is  talking  about, — that  is,  you  know,  about  your 
marrying  Squire  Russell,  and  this  is  the  doctor's  reply : 
*  What  you  wrote  of  Miss  Freeman  took  me  by  surprise, 
but  it  will  be  a  grand  thing  for  the  Squire.  Tell  her  that 
if  she  decides  to  mother  those  six  children,  she  has  my 
best  wishes  for  her  happiness.  You  say  you  had  picked 
her  out  for  me.  She  would  probably  tell  you  differ 
ently,  as  she  has  seemed  to  dislike  rather  than  like  me, 
and  according  to  your  own  story,  bites  her  words  ofl 
crisp  and  short  when  I  am  mentioned.' " 

"  O  Jessie,  how  could  you  ?  What  made  you  tell 
him  that  ?  It  was  cruel  of  you,  when  I  do  like  him," 
Dora  cried,  her  face  for  an  instant  crimsoning  with  pas 
sion  and  then  growing  deathly  white  as  she  felt  her  des 
tiny  crushing  down  upon  her  without  a  hope  of  es 
cape. 

"  Because  you  do,"  Jessie  retorted,  anxious  to  defend 
herself.  "  You  are  just  as  spiteful  as  can  be  when  I 
tease  you  about  him,  and  I  don't  care  ! " 

Jessie  was  vexed  at  herself  for  having  told  Dr.  West 
what  she  had,  and  vexed  at  Dora  for  resenting  it ;  but 
•he  never  dreamed  of  the  terrible  pain  throbbing  in 
Dora's  heart,  as  with  a  mighty  effort  she  forced  back  the 


168  WAITING  FOR  THE  ANSWER. 

piteous,  despairing  cry  rising  to  her  lips,  and  brought 
there  a  smile  instead,  saying  pleasantly : 

'*  Well,  never  mind  it  now.  It  does  not  mattei  j  only 
Dr.  West  has  been  so  kind  to  us  in  sickness  that  I  ought 
to  like  him,  and  do.  Does  he  say  what  time  he  will  be 
home?" 

Jessie  was  thoroughly  deceived,  and  after  ascertaining 
that  he  merely  spoke  of  coming  in  the  autumn,  went  to 
her  room,  as  there  were  a  few  things  she  must  yet  do  fat 
tei  morrow's  journey. 


CHAPTER  XVL 

THE  ENGAGEMENT. 

Extract  from  Dora's  Diary. 

|S  it  I?  Is  it  I  ?  Oh,  is  IT  I,  sitting  here  to- 
night  with  this  pressure  on  my  brain,  this  tight 
ness  about  my  eyes,  this  anguish  in  my  heart,  thia 
feeling  of  desperation  urging  me  on  to  meet  anything, 
everything,  even  death  itself?  If  he  received  Jessie's 
letter,  he  did  mine,  of  course,  for  they  went  together  • 
and  why  not  answer  me,  instead  of  sending  that  cold, 
mocking  message  ?  If  people  ever  die  of  shame  surely  I 
ought  to  die,  for  did  I  not  almost  beg  of  him  to  say 
again  what  he  said  at  Anna's  grave, — to  tell  me  that  he 
loved  me  and  would  save  me  ?  Yes,  it  all  comes  to  me 
now, — all  that  I  wrote  and  what  it  meant.  And  he  does 
not  respond.  If  he  ever  cared,  he  does  not  now,  and  he 
spurns  my  offered  love.  He  wishes  me  happiness  ;  aye, 
and  why  should  I  not  be  happy  ?  Many  a  woman  would 
gladly  be  the  mother  of  Margaret's  six  children ;  and 
shall  I,  her  sister,  who  promised  so  solemnly,  refuse  ? 
No,  John ;  no,  Johnnie ;  no,  Margaret ;  I  will  grant 
your  wish.  Dr.  West,  when  he  comes  h»me,  shall  have 

8 


170  THE  ENGAGEMENT. 

no  reason  to  believe  that  Dora  Freeman  ever  thought  of 
him,  or  spoke  of  him,  except  in  the  '  crisp,  cross  man 
ner  '  which  Jessie  has  described.  John  must  wait  a  year 
from  the  time  Margaret  died,  but  I  can  givo  him  my  de 
cision  now,  and  I  will  then  go  to  Bell  and  Jessie,  and  ask 
them  to  be  my  bridesmaids." 

There  was  a  pause  made  in  the  diary,  and  leaning  her 
aching  head  upon  her  hands,  Dora  thought  and  thought 
until  the  hardness  softened,  when,  resuming  her  pen,  she 
wrote  as  follows : 

"I  believe.it  is  my  duty  to  be  John's  wife,  and  the 
mother  of  Margaret's  children.  It  is  true  I  did  not  so 
understand  her,  but  that  was  what  she  meant,  and  I 
promised  solemnly.  I  can  love  John,  or  at  least  I  can 
keep  myself  from  hating  him,  knowing  how  happy  I 
make  him,  and  I  do  love  his  children,  especially  Johnnie. 
O  Johnnie,  I  should  die  if  it  were  not  for  you !  " 

The  pen  dropped  from  the  trembling  fingers,  and 
again  the  face  was  buried  in  the  hands,  while  Dora 
nerved  herself  to  do  what  she  vainly  imagined  was  rer 
duty.  Squire  Russell  she  knew  was  in  the  library,  Bell 
and  Jessie  in  their  room,  Johnnie  in  the  street,  and  the 
other  children  in  bed.  There  was  nothing  in  the  way, 
and  she  would  go  at  once,  so  that  the  worst  might  be 
over  as  soon  as  possible.  Without  a  moment  longer  in 
which  to  consider,  she  rose,  ani  gliding  down  the  eiaira, 
knocked  at  the  library  door. 


THE  ENGAGEMENT.  1ft 

"  Come  in,"  the  Squire  said,  his  voice  and  inannei 
changing  at  once  when  he  saw  who  his  visitor  was. 

"  O  D  Dra,  is  it  you  ?  "  he  said,  rising  to  his  feet,  while 
his  face  glowed  with  pleasure. 

"  Yes,  John,"  and  Dora  spoke  hurriedly.  "  It  is  most 
seven  weeks  since  I  said  you  must  wait  for  my  answer. 
I  can  give  it  now  as  well  as  any  time.  I  will  be  your 
wife." 

Not  a  muscle  changed  as  she  said  this,  neither  did  her 
voice  tremble,  but  rang  out  clear  and  decided,  and  it  may 
be  a  little  sharp  and  unnatural.  Dora  was  very  calm, 
far  more  so  than  the  Squire,  who,  taken  by  surprise, 
started,  and  trembled,  and  blushed,  and  stammered  like 
some  guilty  school-boy.  This  state  of  things,  however, 
lasted  only  for  a  moment,  and  then  rousing  himself, 
Squire  Russell  drew  the  unresisting  girl  to  his  side,  and 
kissing  her  forehead,  said  tenderly  : 

"  God  bless  you,  Dora.  You  &ave  made  me  very 
happy.  I  was  beginning  to  think,  it  could  not  be,  and 
was  learning  to  live  without  jon,  but  that  makes  my  joy 
the  greater.  God  bless  rny  I/ora,  and  show  me  how  to 
make  her  happy  !  " 

Had  the  Squire  followed  the  promptings  of  his  nature 
he  would  have  caressed  hei  lovingly,  just  as  he  did  Mar 
garet  when  she  stood  thus  beside  him ;  but  remembering 
Johnnie's  warnings,  he  der.isted,  and  it  was  well  he  did, 
else  Dora  had  hated  him.  Now  she  suffered  him  to  wind 


172  THE  ENGAGEMENT. 

his  arms  around  her,  while  lie  told  her  again  how  happy 
she  had  made  him,  and  blessed  her  for  it. 

"Dora,"  be  said,  and  now  he  smoothed  her  hair,  "a 
man  of  forty  is  not  called  old,  and  I  am  only  that,  but  I 
am  fourteen  years  your  senior,  while  my  six  children 
make  me  seem  older  still,  but  my  heart  is  young,  and  1 
will  try  so  hard  to  stay  with  you  till  you  too  are  old. 
I'll  go  with  you  wherever  you  wish  to  go,  do  anything 
you  like,  and  never  frown  upon  the  things  which  I  know 
young  girls  love.  I  will  not  be  an  ogre  guarding  my 
girlish  wife,  but  a  proud,  happy  husband,  doing  that 
wife's  bidding." 

Dora  could  not  repress  her  tears,  he  spoke  so  kindly, 
so  earnestly,  and  she  knew  he  meant  all  he  was  saying, 
while  she  was  deceiving  .him.  She  did  not  think  either 
that  she  \vas  doing  very  wrong  in  thus  deceiving  him. 
It  wsus  'aer  duty  to  be  his  wife,  and  it  was  not  her  duty 
to  analyze  her  feelings  in  his  sight,  unless  he  asked  her 
for  such  analysis,  which  he  was  not  likely  to  do,  for  hia 
was  not  a  mind  quick  to  perceive,  while  suspicion  was 
something  to  which  he  was  a  total  stranger.  He  had  al 
ways  admired  Dora,  and  latterly  he  had  learned  to  love 
her  devotedly,  feeling  now  that  his  affection  was  in  part 
returned,  else  she  had  not  deliberately  come  to  him  and 
said,  et  I  will  be  your  wife."  It  made  him  very  happy  to 
know  she  had  said  so,  and  in  his  happiness  he  failed  to 
notice  the  pallor  of  her  face,  the  drooping  of  her  swollen 


THE  ENGAGEMENT.  173 

eyelids,  and  her  apparent  wish  to  get  as  far  from  him  aa 
possible.  Margaret  had  never  been  demonstrative,  and 
he  hardly  expected  Dora  to  be  different,  so  the  poor,  de 
luded  man  was  satisfied,  and  when  Dora,  who  would  have 
everything  settled  at  once,  said  to  him : 

"  We  will  wait  a  year, — till  next  autumn,"  he  knew 
what  she  meaut,  and  answered  readily. 

"  Yes,  if  you  like,  though  Margaret  said  it  did  not 
matter  how  soon,  the  earlier  the  better  for  the  children's 
sake." 

"  I'd  rather  it  should  be  a  year,"  was  Dora's  quiet  re 
ply,  to  which  the  Squire  assented,  and  then,  though  he  so 
much  wished  her  to  stay,  he  opened  the  door  for  her  to 
pass  out,  as  he  saw  that  she  desired  it. 

Half  an  hour  later  and  Bell  Verner,  who  was  just  fall 
ing  to  sleep,  was  startled  by  a  knock,  and  Dora  asked 
permission  to  enter. 

"What  is  it?  Who's  come?"  Jessie  asked  in  a 
dreamy  tone,  lifting  her  curly  head  from  the  pillow,  just 
as  Bell  unlocked  the  door,  and  Dora  stepped  into  the 
room. 

She  was  very  calm  now  and  decided.  The  matter  was 
fixed  now  beyond  recall,  and  she  felt  a  great  deal  better. 
Sitting  down  upon  the  foot  of  the  bed,  she  said  to  BeiJ 
ind  Jessie : 

"  I  could  not  let  you  go  home  without  telling  yo» 
something  which  may  perhaps  surprise  you." 


174  THE  ENGAGEMENT. 

"  Oh,  T  know.  I  can  guess.  You  are  going  to  marry 
Mr.  Russell,"  Jessie  cried,  and  Dora  answered : 

"  Yes.  It  was  Margaret's  wish,  expressed  to  both  of 
us,  but  that  is  nothing.  I  begin  to  feel  old ;  oh,  so  old," 
and  D  >ra  shuddered  as  she  said  it.  "  John  is  good  and 
will  make  me  a  kind  husband.  It  is  true  that  once,  when 
a  very  young  girl  like  Jessie,  I  had  in  my  mind  another 
idea  for  a  husband.  All  girls  do  in  their  teens,  I  guess, 
but  when  we  get  to  be  twenty -six  we  begin  to  lose  the 
fancy  man  and  look  for  something  solid." 

This  she  said  to  Bell,  as  if  expecting  her  concurrence 
rather  than  that  of  madcap  Jessie.  But  the  contrary 
was  the  fact,  for  Jessie  approved  the  match  far  more  than 
her  sister.  Squire  "Russell  was  splendid,  she  said,  and 
would  let  a  body  do  just  as  she  had  a  mind,  which  was 
a  great  deal  nicer  than  a  dictatorial,  overbearing  fellow  of 
twenty-fiight.  Yes,  she'd  give  her  consent,  and  she  be 
gan  to  whistle,  "  Come  haste  to  the  wedding,"  as  she 
nestled  back  among  the  pillows,  wondering  how  she 
should  feel  to  be  engaged  to  Squire  Russell.  Bell  on  the 
contrary  saw  things  in  their  ti  ue  light,  and  she  merely 
replied : 

<(  I  am  somewhat  surprised,  I  will  acknowledge,  but  if 
you  love  him  that  is  all  that  is  necessary." 

She  was  looking  directly  at  Dora,  but  in  the  dim 
moonlight  the  white,  haggard  face  was  not  plainly  dia- 
corned,  and  Bell  continued : 


THE  ENGAGEMENT.  175 

"  I  (lid  think  you  liked  Dr.  West,  and  -was  positive  he 
liked  you." 

"  Oh,  fie,"  and  Jessie  sprang  up  again,  "  Dora  hatea 
him,  while  he, — well,  I  guess  he  likes  all  the  girls, — that 
is,  likes  to  talk  with  and  flatter  them ;  any  way,  he  has 
said  a  great  many  complimentary  things  to  me,  and  I 
knew  he  meant  nothing.  They  say  his  heart  is  buried  in 
that  grave  in  Morrisville.  I  picked  him  out  for  Dora 
one*,1,  you  know,  and  that's  all  the  good  it  did.  Marry 
the  Squire,  and  let  me  be  bridesmaid." 

«  Will  you  ?  "  Dora  asked.  "  Will  you  and  Bell  both 
officiate  ?  " 

Jessie  assented  eagerly,  but  Bell  hesitated.  She  could 
not  make  it  seem  rqal  that  Dora  Freeman  was  to  become 
the  wife  of  Squire  Russell.  Something  would  prevent  it. 
At  last,  however,  as  Dora  urged  a  reply,  she  said : 

"  Perhaps  I  will,  if  when  the  time  arrives  you  still 
wish  for  two." 

The  clock  was  striking  eleven  when  Dora  quitted  the 
apartment  of  the  Misses  Verner,  but  late  as  it  was  John 
nie  was  waiting  for  her  by  her  door.  He  had  heard  the 
glad  news  from  his  father,  and  he  caught  Dora  round  tha 
nock,  exclaiming : 

"  I  know,  I've  heard, — the  governor  told  me.  You 
are, — you  are  my  mother.  I  never  was  so  happy  in  my 
life,  was  you  ?  " 

They  were  now  in  Dora's  room,  where  the  gas  wat 


176  TEE  ENGAGEMENT. 

burning,  disclosing  to  Johnnie  a  face  which  made  him 
start  with  fear,  it  was  so  unnaturally  white. 

"  Auntie,"  he  exclaimed,  bending  over  her,  as,  reclining 
upon  the  bed,  she  buried  her  head  in  the  pillows,  "  what 
makes  you  so  white,  when  I'm  so  glad,  and  father,  too  ? 
I  never  saw  him  so  pleased.  Why,  the  tears  danced  in 
his  eyes  as  he  told  me,  while  I  blubbered  like  a  calf;  and 
you  are  crying,  too,  but  not  as  father  did,  or  I.  O 
my  !  what  is  it  ?  This  is  so  different.  Auntie,  Auntie, 
you  are  in  a  fit !"  and  Johnnie  gazed  awe-struck  upon 
the  little  form  which  shook  convulsively  as  Dora  tried  to 
smother  her  deep  sobs.  "  I'll  go  for  father,"  Johnnie  con 
tinued,  and  then  Dora  looked  up,  telling  him  to  stay 
there  where  he  was. 

"  But,  Auntie,  what  is  the  matter?  "  he  asked.  "  Do 
girls  always  cry  so  when  they  are  engaged  ?  What 
makes  your  tears  run  so  like  rivers,  and  so  big  ?  It 
must  hurt  awfully  to  be  engaged.  O  dear,  dear  !  I  am 
crying,  too !  "  and  then  the  excited  boy  wound  both  arms 
around  Dora's  neck  and  drew  her  head  upon  his  shoulder, 
where  it  lay,  while  Dora's  tears  literally  ran  in  rivers 
down  her  cheeks. 

But  the  weeping  did  her  good,  and  she  grew  very  quiet 
at  last,  and  listened  while  Johnnie  toH  her  how  good  he 
was  going  to  be,  and  how  he  would  influence  the  others 
to  be  good,  too. 

**  We  will  all  be  so  happy,"  he  said    "*  ^IV*  inothnr,  i/ 


THE  ENGAGEMENT.  177 

she  could  look  at  us,  would  be  so  glad.  Father  will  read 
to  us  winter  nights,  or  you'll  play  chess  with  him  and 
sing  to  us  youngsters,  and  summers  we'll  go  to  lots  of 
places,  and  you  shall  have  heaps  of  handsome  dresses. 
You're  not  so  tall  as  mother,  and  it  won't  take  so  many 
yards,  so  you  can  have  more.  I  mean  to  buy  one  any 
how,  with  some  money  I've  laid  up.  I  guess  it  will  be 
red  silk,  like  Jessie's,  and  you'll  have  it  made  low-neck, 
like  hers,  with  little  short  sleeves.  You've  got  nice, 
pretty  arms,  whiter  than  Jessie's." 

Remembering  how  much  his  mother  had  thought  of 
dress,  Johnnie  naturally  concluded  it  to  be  the  Open 
Sesame  to  every  woman's  heart,  and  so  talked  on  until 
she  sent  him  away,  for  she  would  rathor  be  alone  with 
her  own  tumultuous  thoughts. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

•XTBACT  FROM  DR.  WEST'S  JOURNAL 

"SAN  FRANCISCO,  June, 
||O  I  believe  it  now,  after  the  first  stunning  effect 

is  over,  and  I  sit  here  alone  thinking  calmly  oJ 
what  came  to  me  in  Jessie  "Verner's  letter  ?  Do 
I  belie\e  that  Dora  will  marry  her  brother-in-law,  re 
membering  as  I  do  the  expression  of  her  face  when  she 
Bat  by  the  two  graves  and  I  told  her  of  Anna  ?  Can 
there  be  jealousy  where  there  is  no  love  ?  I  think  not, 
and  she  was  jealous  of  my  commendations  of  Jessie. 
Oh,  was  I  deceived,  and  did  her  coldness  and  ill-nature 
mean  more  than  I  was  willing  to  admit  ?  It  is  very  hard 
to  give  her  up,  loving  her  as  I  do,  but  God  knows  best 
what  is  for  my  good.  When  I  set  Anna  above  Him  He 
took  her  away,  and  now  He  will  take  my  Dora.  It  is 
sheer  selfishness,  I  know,  and  yet  I  cannot  help  feeling 
that  I  would  rather  she  were  lying  by  Anna's  side  than 
to  see  her  Squire  Russell's  wife.  It  is  a  most  unnatural 
match,  for  there  is  no  bond  of  sympathy  in  their  natures. 
Dora  must  be  unhappy  after  the  novelty  is  gone.  Darling 
Dora, — it  is  not  wicked  to  speak  thus  of  her  now,  as  there 


EXTRACT  FROM  DR.  WEST'S  JOURNAL.    179 

is  no  certainty  in  the  case,  only  a  surmise,  which,  never 
theless,  has  almost  broken  my  heart,  for  I  feel  sure  that 
whether  she  marry  the  Squire  or  not,  she  is  lost  to  me. 
She  does  not  care  for  me.  She  never  did,  else  why  doea 
she  grow  so  cross  and  crisp  when  my  name  is  mentioned  ? 
Alas  1  that  I  should  ever  have  thought  otherwise,  and 
built  up  a  beautiful  future  which  only  Dora  was  to  share 
with  me.  I  am  afraid  to  record  on  paper  how  dear  she 
is  to  me,  or  how  constantly  she  has  been  in  my  mind  since 
I  parted  from  her.  How  anxiously  I  waited  for  some 
reply  to  my  letter,  and  how  disappointed  I  was  in  the 
arrival  of  every  mail.  I  wonder  if  I  did  well  to  answer 
Jessie  so  soon,  and  send  that  message  to  Dora?  I  am 
confident  now  that  it  was  not  a  right  spirit  which  prompt 
ed  me  to  act  so  hastily.  I  felt  that  Dora  had  broken 
faith  with  me, — that  she  should  have  waited  at  least  the 
year, — that  in  some  way  she  was  injuring  me,  and  so  vin 
dictive  pride  dictated  tho  words  I  sent  her.  May  I  be 
forgiven  for  the  wrong  ;  and  if  Dora  is  indeed  to  be  the 
bride  of  her  sister's  husband,  may  she  be  happy  with  him, 
and  never  know  one  iota  of  the  pain  and  suffering  her  mar< 
riage  will  bring  to  me. 

"  Our  stay  in  California  has  been  very  pleasant,  even 
though  I  have  failed  thus  far  in  what  waa  the  secret 
motive  which  led  me  here,  the  hope  of  finding  the  man 
to  whom  that  letter  was  addressed  long  years  ago,  Robin's 
father,  and,  as  I  believe,  Anna's  husband.  We  have  bee» 


180    EXTRACT  FROM  DR.  WEST 8  JOURNAL. 

at  this  hotel  just  three  weeks  to-day,  and  mother  likes  it 
better  than  the  private  boarding-house  we  left.  Friends 
seem  to  spring  up  around  us  wherever  we  go,  and  I  be 
lieve  I  have  nearly  as  many  patients  in  San  Francisco  aa 
I  ever  had  at  home.  For  this  good  fortune,  which  I  did 
not  expect,  I  thank  my  Heavenly  Father,  praying  that 
the  means  I  use  may  be  blessed  to  the  recovery  of  those 
who  so  willingly  put  their  lives  in  my  hands. 

"  How  that  poor  fellow  in  the  next  room  groans,  and 
how  the  sound  of  his  moaning  makes  me  long  to  hasten 
to  his  side  and  alleviate,  if  possible,  the  fever  which  they 
say  is  consuming  him.  Poor  fellow,  he  was  making 
money  so  fast,  I  hear,  and  hoarding  it  so  carefully  for  his 
mother,  he  told  his  acquaintance,  and  now  he  is  dying 
here  alone,  far  from  his  mother,  who  would  so  gladly 
smooth  his  dying  pillow.  I  saw  him  when  they  carried 
him  through  the  hall  on  his  arrival  from  the  mountains, 
and  something  in  the  shape  of  his  head  and  the  way  the 
hair  curled  around  it,  made  me  start,  it  was  so  like 
Kobert's.  But  the  name,  when  I  asked  it,  drove  the 
hope  away :  John  Maxwell,  or  Maxy  as  he  is  generally 
called  by  those  who  know  him  best.  He  has  been  here 
for  years,  steadily  accumulating  money,  and  winning,  aa 
it  would  seem,  scores  of  friends.  Even  the  head  cham 
ber-maid,  when  she  heard  (t young  Max"  was  ill,  and 
was  to  be  brought  here,  evinced  more  womanly  interest 
thac.  I  supposed  her  capable  of  doing.  He  must  be  grow- 


EXTRACT  FROM  DR.  WEST'S  JOURNAL.    181 

ing  worse,  his  meanings  increase  so  fast,  and  there  seema 
to  be  a  consultation  going  on  within  his  room,  while  my 
name  is  spoken  by  some  one,  a  friend  too  it  would  seem, 
for  he  says : 

"  *  I  wish  you  would  try  him  at  least.  I  have  great 
faith  in  that  mode  of  practice.' 

"  They  are  going  to  send  for  me ;  they  are  coming 
now  to  the  door ;  they  are  saying  to.  me : 

"  *  Dr.  West,  will  you  step  in  and  see  what  you  think 
of  poor  Max's  case  ?  ' " 


CHAPTER  XVTIL 

POOR  MAX. 

HAT  was  what  they  called  him  at  the  hotel) 
which  had  been  to  him  a  home  for  years,  and 
you  would  know  by  the  intonation  of  the  it 
voices  that  he  was  a  favorite  with  all.  He  was  very  sick, 
burning  with  fever,  and  talking  at  intervals  of  hia 
mother,  of  Dick,  and  of  another  whose  name  the  attend 
ants  could  not  well  make  out.  It  was  of  his  sweetheart, 
the  chamber-maid  surmised,  for  in  the  pocket  of  his  vest, 
which  she  hung  away,  she  had  found  a  daguerrotype  of  a 
young  girl,  whose  marvellous  beauty  she  had  never  seen 
excelled. 

"  Poor  Mr.  Max !  he  must  have  loved  her  so  much ! 
I  wonder  where  she  is  to-day  ?  "  she  said,  softly,  as  she 
contin  led  to  scan  the  lovely  face  smiling  upon  her  from 
the  worn,  old-fashioned  case. 

Alas !  the  original  of  that  picture  had  for  many  a 
year  been  mouldering  back  to  dust,  and  poor  Max,  who 
had  loved  and  wronged  her  so  much,  was  whispering  her 
name  in  vain.  He  was  growing  worse,  his  nurse  feared, 
and  so  at  last  she  sent  for  Dr.  West,  of  whose  skill  sh« 


POOR  MAX.  183 

had  heard  so  much,  and  who  in  a  few  minutes  stepped 
into  the  clisely  darkened  room. 

(l  It  seemed  as  if  the  light  worried  him,"  the  nurse 
said,  in  a  whisper,  as  she  saw  the  doctor  glance  towards 
the  curtained  windows. 

"Very  likely;  but  I  should  like  to  see  him  for 
once,"  was  the  doctor's  reply,  as  he  took  the  hot  hand  in 
his. 

Max's  face,  which,  within  a  day  or  two,  had  grown 
very  thin  and  was  now  purple  with  fever,  was  turned 
away  from  the  doctor,  who  counted  the  rapid  pulse,  while 
the  nurse  admitted  a  ray  of  light,  which  shone  full  upon 
the  sick  man's  pillow,  and  made  Dr.  West  start  suddenly, 
and  turn  whiter  even  than  the  broad  forehead  round 
which  the  damp  brown  hair  was  curling.  Then  he  bent 
anxiously  over  his  patient,  turning  him  more  to  the  light, 
where  he  could  see  him  distinctly.  Did  he  recognize 
anything  familiar  in  that  sunken  face,  where  the  beard 
was  growing  so  heavily, — anything  which  carried  him 
back  to  his  Northern  home,  where  in  his  childhood  every 
pastime  had  been  shared  by  another,  and  that  other  his 
twin  brother  ?  Did  he  see  anything  which  brought  to 
him  thoughts  of  Anna,  dead  so  long  ago,  or  of  Robin, 
who  died  when  the  last  summer  flowers  were  blooming  ? 
Yes  ;  and  kneeling  by  the  bedside  he  whispered,  "  Robert, 
Robert,  is  it  you?" 

The  bright  eyes  were  open  and  fixed  upon  him,  but 


184:  POOR  MAX. 

with  a  vacant  stare,  while  a  second  look  at  the  flushed 
face  brought  a  doubt  into  the  doctor's  mind. 

"  He  is  like  my  brother  Robert,  and  yet  he  is  not  like 
him,"  he  thought,  as  he  continued  to  scrutinize  the  fea 
tures  which  puzzled  him  so  much. 

"  Mother  will  know,"  he  said  at  last;  and  going  to  his 
mother,  he  said  to  her  hurriedly,  "  Come  with  me,  and 
tell  if  you  ever  saw  this  Max  before." 

He  was  greatly  excited,  but  not  more  so  than  his 
mother,  who  felt  intuitively  the  shock  awaiting  her. 

"  Open  that  blind  wide,  and  put  back  that  heavy  cur 
tain,"  the  doctor  said  to  the  frightened  nurse,  who  quickly 
obeyed  his  orders,  and  then  waited  to  see  what  would 
happen  next. 

Max  was  talking  and  counting  on  his  fingers  till  he 
came  to  twenty. 

"  Yes,  twenty,  that's  it,"  he  said ;  "  that's  the  way  the 
paper  read;  just  twenty  years  of  age,  and  Dick  and  I  are 
six  years  older.  Dick  loved  her,  too  ;  he  ought  to  have 
married  her.  Dick  was  a  trump." 

"  What  does  he  say  ?  What  does  he  say  ?  O  Rich 
ard,  what  does  he  say  ?  "  Mrs.  West  almost  screamed,  as 
Bhe  bent  down  so  low  that  the  hot  fever  breath  lifted  her 
silver  hair. 

Richard  made  no  answer,  nor  was  there  need,  for 
the  mother  instinct  recognized  the  boy,  the  wayward, 
wandering  Robert,  mourned  fox  as  dead  during  BO  many 


POOR  MAX.  185 

dreary  years,  while  the  mother  love,  forgetting  nil  the 
past,  cried  out,  "  My  boy,  my  boy,  my  Robert,  my  child ! 
God  has  given  you  back  to  me  at  last !  Praised  be  Hi& 
name ! " 

For  an  instant  something  like  reason  flashed  over  the 
wasted  face,  but  it  passed  away,  and  to  the  mother's  con 
tinued  murmurings  of  love  there  came  only  incoherent 
mutterings  of  the  mountains,  the  mines,  and  stocks  which 
seemed  to  have  been  substituted  for  the  thoughts  of 
the  twenty  years  and  the  trump  of  a  Dick,  now  minister 
ing  to  the  mother,  who  had  fainted  and  was  carried  from 
the  room.  But  she  did  not  stay  away  long.  Her  place 
was  by  Robert,  she  said,  and  she  went  back  to  his  side, 
saying  to  those  around  her,  "  He  is  my  boy :  he  left  me 
years  ago,  but  I  have  found  him  at  last." 

People  gossip  in  California  as  well  as  elsewhere,  and 
the  hotel  was  soon  full  of  surmises  and  wonder,  as  peo 
ple  repeated  to  each  other  that  the  man  known  as  Max 
was  Robert  West,  who  had  taken  another  name  and  como 
among  them,  for  what  reason  none  could  guess.  The 
doctor  and  his  mother  knew  the  people  would  talk,  but 
they  did  not  heed  it  during  the  days  when  with  agonizing 
suspense  they  hung  over  the  bed  of  the  prodigal,  watch 
ing  for  some  token  of  amendment,  and  praying  that  the 
erring  one  might  not  be  taken  from  them  now  and  lea  re 
the  past  a  darker  mystery  than  ever.  He  did  not  talk  a 


186  POOR  MAX 

great  deal,  but  when  he  did  it  was  mostly  of  Lome  scenes 
in  which  Anna  and  Dick  were  always  associated. 

Once  when  they  sat  alone  and  Mrs.  West  was  resting 
in  her  room,  Richard  said  to  Robert,  who  had  spoken  of 
Anna  as  of  some  one  there  with  him,  "  You  mean  your 
wife,  Anna  West ;  you  know  you  married  her  privately." 

For  an  instant  the  wild  eyes  flashed  in  RichatdV  face, 
and  then  the  delirious  man  replied,  "  Did  she  tell  you 

80?" 

l(  Not  exactly,  but  I  inferred  as  much,  for  when  she 
lay  dying,  she  said,  '  Call  my  baby  for  his  father,'  and 
when  I  whispered  '  Robert,'  she  nodded  assent.  They 
are  both  dead  now,  Anna  and  little  Robin.  Your  wife, 
your  baby,  which  never  saw  its  father,"  Richard  contin 
ued,  wishing  to  impress  some  idea  upon  his  brother's 
mind. 

But  in  vain,  for  Robert  did  not  take  the  sense  of  what 
ho  heard,  except  indeed  the  word  baby,  which  he  kept  re 
peating  to  himself,  laughing  insanely  as  he  did  so, 
"  Anna's  baby ;  very  funny, — very  queer,  when  she  was 
only  a  child  herself,"  he  would  whisper,  and  that  was  al] 
which  Richard  achieved  by  speaking  of  the  dead. 

But  there  came  a  day  when  the  sfripor  passed  from 
brain  and  head,  leaving  the  latter  free  from  pain  and  the 
former  clear  and  bright.  He  had  been  sleeping,  and 
when  he  woke  only  Richard  was  with  him,  and  he  was 
•itting  where  he  did  not  at  first  observe  the  eyes  fastened 


POOR  MAX.  187 

s(/  curiously  upon  him,  as  Bobert  West's  heart  alternately 
beat  with  hope  and  fear.  He  could  not  be  mistaken,  he 
said  to  himself.  It  was  no  dream  that  his  brother  had 
been  there  with  him, — aye,  was  there  still,  looking  older, 
sadder,  but  his  brother  all  the  same.  Dick,  the  kindest, 
best  brother  in  the  world. 

(t  Richard,"  he  said  at  last  very  softly,  and  Richard 
started,  and  bent  over  the  sick  man,  whose  eyes  read  hia 
face  for  an  instant,  and  then  filled  with  great  hot  tears, 
as,  winding  his  arms  around  the  doctor's  neck,  he  sobbed, 
"It  is  my  brother,  'tis  Dick ;  and  you  will  forgive  me. 
I've  got  the  money  safe,  honestly  earned,  too,  every  cent ; 
more  than  enough  to  pay  the  debt,  which  I  heard  you 
were  paying  for  me.  Dear  old  Dick,  we  will  be  happy 
yet,  but  tell  me  first  that  you  forgive  me,  tell  me  second 
how  you  found  me,  and  tell  me  third  of  mother,  and 
all—" 

He  did  not  mention  Anna,  and  Richard,  in  his  reply, 
only  answered  the  questions  directly  put. 

"  Call  mother,"  Robert  said,  when  told  that  she  was 
there,  and  in  a  moment  she  was  weeping  on  the  pillow  of 
her  erring,  but,  as  it  would  seem,  deeply  repentant  child, 
for  he  repeated  to  her  what  he  had  said  to  Richard  about 
the  money,  adding,  "  And  this  fall  I  was  coming  home  to 
buy  back  the  dear  old  place,  if  possible ;  I  was,  mother, 
I  was ;  I've  been  so  bad  and  wicked,  but  you  will  forgiv* 
me  now,  for  since  I  left  New  York  I  have  not  been  guilty 


188  POOR  MAX. 

of  a  single  dishonorable  act.  Ask  the  people  here,  they 
know.  They  will  tell  you  that  among  them  all  there  ia 
no  one  more  popular  than  Max  ;  I  go  by  that  name," 
and  Robert's  face  crimsoned  as  he  said  this  last. 

In  his  anxiety  that  his  mother  should  forgive  and  think 
well  of  him,  he  grew  so  much  excited  that  all  she  and 
Richard  could  do  was  to  soothe  him  into  quiet  by  assur- 
ancea  of  forgiveness  and  love.  He  was  too  weak  to  talk 
longer,  and  he  lay  perfectly  still,  holding  his  mother's 
hand  and  gazing  into  the  dear  face  which  bent  so  fondly 
over  him.  Once  his  lips  quivered  with  some  deep  emo 
tion,  and  when  Richard  asked  what  he  would  say,  he  an 
swered  : 

"  Mother  has  changed  so  much, — her  hair  has  all 
turned  white.  Was  it  for  me,  mother  ?  " 

"  Not  wholly,  Robert ;  it  turned  about  the  time  when 
we  lost  Anna,"  was  Mrs.  West  answer. 

Instantly  the  sick  man's  eyelids  closed,  and  one  after 
another  the  big  tears  rolled  down  his  sunken  cheeks,  leav 
ing  a  red,  shining  track,  such  as  bitter,  scalding  tears  al 
ways  leave,  but  he  made  no  comment,  and  Anna  was  not 
mentioned  again  until  two  days  had  passed,  and  he  was 
so  much  better  that  he  sat  up  in  bed,  propped  on  pillows, 
with  his  mother  at  his  side,  half  supporting  him.  Then 
suddenly  breaking  a  silence  which  had  fallen  upon  them, 
be  exclaimed: 

"  It  was  an  unfortunate  hour  that  saw  me  installed  ai 


POOR  MAX.  189 

our  great  Uncle  Jason's  book-keeper  and  confidential 
clerk.  He  trusted  me  so  entirely,  and  there  were  such 
large  sums  of  monej  daily  passing  through  my  hands, 
that  the  temptation  was  a  great  one  to  a  person  of  my 
expensive  tastes  and  habits.  I  cannot  tell  just  when  I 
took  the  first  five  dollars,  replacing  it  as  soon  as  possible 
and  then  finding  the  second  sin  so  much  easier  than  the 
first.  It  was  not  a  sin,  I  said  then,  as  did  others  of  my 
companions  who  were  in  the  habit  of  doing  the  same 
thing,  and  who  led  me  on  from  bad  to  worse,  while  all 
the  time  my  uncle  believed  me  a  pattern  of  honesty.  If 
I  had  not  heard  that  a  part  of  Uncle  Jason's  fortune  right 
fully  belonged  to  us,  I  do  not  believe  I  should  have  fallen 
so  low.  As  it  was,  I  made  myself  think  that  what  I  took 
was  mine,  and  after  I  learned  to  gamble  it  was  ten  times 
worse.  There  is  a  fascination  about  those  dens  of 
iniquity  which  you  cannot  understand,  and  it  proved  my 
ruin.  I  played  every  night,  sometimes  losing,  some 
times  winning,  and  gradually  staking  more  and  more, 
until  at  last  I  bet  so  heavily  that  forgery  was  the  conse 
quence.  I  don't  know  what  made  me  do  it,  for  I  knew 
I  could  not  replace  that  20,000  dollars,  and  when  the 
deed  was  done  there  was  no  alternative  but  to  run 
'  away.  Assuming  the  name  of  John  Maxwell,  I  went  to 
England  first,  and  then  to  California.  Unale  Jason  had 
•o  much  faith  in  me  that  you  know  he  believed  me  mur* 


190  POOR  MAX. 

dered,  until  the  fraud  was  discovered,  -when  it  secnafl  h« 
behaved  most  generously,  suppressing  the  facts,  and 
after  an  interview  with  you,  my  brother,  consented  to 
keep  the  whole  thing  still,  provided  the  money  was  in 
time  refunded." 

"Who  told  you  this?"  both  Richard  and  his  mother 
exclaimed,  but  Robert  only  replied: 

"  I  heard  it,  and  resolved,  if  possible,  to  earn  that 
money  and  pay  it  back  myself.  The  voyage  out  sobered 
me  into  a  better  man,  for,  mother,  your  prayers,  said 
over  me  when  I  was  a  child,  rang  continually  in  my 
ears,  until  I,  too,  ventured  to  whisper  each  day  the 
words,  '  Lead  us  not  into  temptation,'  saying  them  at 
first  more  from  habit  than  anything  else,  and  afterwards 
because  I  learned  to  have  faith  iii  them,  learned  to  be 
lieve  there  was  something  in  that  petition  which  did 
keep  me  from  falling  lower.  I  was  not  good  as  you 
term  goodness,  and  had  I  died  I  should  assuredly  have 
been  lost ;  but  within  a  few  short  months  there  has  been 
a  change,  so  that  what  I  once  was  doing  for  your  sakes  I 
now  do,  I  trust,  from  higher,  holier  motives ;  and  oh  !  I 
had  so  much  need  of  forgiveness,  for  had  I  not  wronged 
everybody,  and  you,  my  brother,  most  of  all  ?  " 

There  was  a  mutual  pressure  of  hands  between  the 
brothers,  and  then  they  who  listened  hoped  to  hear  of 
next,  but  of  her  Robert  was  still  silent,  and  they 


POOR  MAX.  191 

Buffered  him  to  take  Iris  own  couvse,  following  him  with 
breathless  interest  as  he  told  of  his  life  in  the  mines,  and 
how  he  had  been  successful  bt^ond  his  most  sanguine 
hopes, — how  friends  had  sprung  up  around  him,  and  ell 
things  had  conspired  to  make  him  happy,  were  ic  not  for 
the  dreadful  memories  of  the  past  which  haunted  him 
continually. 

"  I  should  have  written  when  I  learned  that  I  waa 
safe  from  a  felon's  doom,"  he  said,  "  but  with  this  in 
formation  came  news  of  so  terrible  a  nature  that  I  was 
stunned  for  many  months,  so  that  I  cared  little  what 
became  of  me,  and  when  feeling  came  back  again,  I  said 
I'll  wait  until  I  have  the  money  as  a  sure  peace  offering. 
I  had  it  almost  earned,  once,  two  years  ago,  but  by  a 
great  reverse  I  lost  so  much  that  I  was  compelled  to 
wait  yet  longer, — wait,  as  it  seems,  till  you  came  here  to 
find  me.  It  is  all  a  dream  to  me  yet  that  you  are  here, 
and  that  I,  perhaps,  shall  breathe  again  my  native  air, 
and  visit  the  old  home.  Is  it  greatly  changed  ?  " 

".Many  would  think  West  Lawn  improved,"  Richard 
replied,  <l  but  to  us  who  loved  Anna  it  can  never  be  the 
same." 

There  was  another  silence,  and  then  Richard,  who 
could  no  longer  restrain  Irimself,  exclaimed  : 

"  Robert,  if  you  know  aught  which  can  throw  a  ray  of 
fight  on  Anna's  dark  face,  in  pity  tell  us  what  it  is! 


192  POOR  MAX. 

You  do  know,— you   must  know! — Was   Anna  yota 
wife?" 

Richard  could  hear  the  beatings  of  .his  own  and  hii 
Soother's  heart  as  he  waited  for  the  answer,  which,  when 
it  came,  was  a  decided  "  Yes,  Anna  was  my  wife  I " 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ANNA. 

|  HE  summer  moonlight  was  shining  into  the 
sick-room,  where,  with  Richard  and  his  mother 
beside  him,  Robert  West  was  summoning  nerve 
and  courage  to  tell  the  story  they  were  waiting  so  anxiously 
to  hear.  With  the  assertion  that  "  Anna  was  my  wife," 
he  had  fainted,  and  since  then  a  night  and  a  day  had  in 
tervened,  during  which  no  word  of  the  past  had  escaped 
his  lips.  But  now  that  he  was  stronger,  he  had  said  to 
his  mother  and  brother,  "  Sit  beside  me,  and  if  I  can  I 
will  tell  you  of  Anna." 

They  needed  no  second  bidding,  but  gathered  closely 
to  him,  and  there,  in  the  quiet  room,  Robert  West  began 
the  story,  in  which  there  was  a  slight  recapitulation  of 
what  he  had  before  told,  but  which  will  help  to  en 
lighten  the  reader  with  regard  to  Robert's  past. 

"  I  cannot  remember  the  time  when  I  did  not  love 
Anna,"  he  said,  fixing  his  eyes  upon  the  ceiling.  t(  As 
a  boy  I  made  no  secret  of  it,  but  as  I  grew  older  I  pre 
tended  not  to  care  for  her  more  than  for  any  other,  and 
•ailed  her  a  little  doll,  you  know,  but  it  was  mere  pre- 


194  ANNA. 

tense,  for  I  loved  the  very  air  she  breathed ;  and  when  I 
heard  she  was  engaged  to  Dick,  I  cried  as  young  re  en  of 
twenty-two  seldom  cry.  You  know  I  had  then  been  in 
Hew  York  two  years,  and  that  soon  after  this  I  was  re 
ceived  into  Uncle  Jason's  employ,  and  trusted  by  him 
with  everything.  For  my  father's  sake,  he  trusted  me, 
he  used  to  say,  never  dreaming  how  unlike  the  father  was 
the  son. 

"  After  losing  Anna  I  cared  little  for  my  self-respect, 
and  then  first  commenced  the  process  of  taking  five  or  ten 
dollars,  as  I  chanced  to  need  it.  This  I  always  replaceda 
and  so  conscience  was  satisfied,  particularly  after  I  found 
that  other  young  men,  who  stood  as  well  as  myself,  did 
the  same.  I  cannot  account  for  it,  but  I  now  believe 
that  my  apparent  indifference  to  Anna  attracted  rather 
than  repelled  her,  for  when  I  was  at-home  I  used  to  try 
the  experiment  of  being  very  attentive,  just  to  see  how 
she  would  brighten  with  pleasure,  but  it  was  not  until 
my  last  visit,  made  the  August  before  I  ran  away,  that 
the  idea  entered  my  brain  of  taking  her  from  Richard. 
He  was  gone  for  two  weeks,  you  will  remember,  and  I 
improved  my  time  to  so  good  advantage  that  when  I 
finally  left  Morrisville,  I  had  won  a  half  promise  from 
Anna  that  she  would  talk  with  him  and  ask  to  be  re 
leased.  She  did  not  promise  this  willingly,  for  her  strong 
sense  of  right  made  her  question  the  justice  of  such  aa 
&ctj  and  all  my  arguments  were  necessaj  p  fco  wring  that 


ANNA.  195 

promise  frora  her.  We  were  out  in  the  graveyard,  Dick 
on  that  little  bench, — you  know  where." 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  "  and  Richard's  reply  was  like  a 
groan,  as  Anna  and  Dora  came  up  before  him,  connected 
with  that  rustic  bench. 

"  It  was  a  moonlight  night,  and  we  stayed  there  a  long, 
long  time,  mother  thinking  we  were  at  some  neighbor's 
house,  while  you,  my  brother,  were  away,  never  dream 
ing  how  falsely  I  was  dealing  with  you.  But  Anna 
thought  of  you,  pleading  most  for  you,  even  while  she 
confessed  her  love  for  me,  and  saying- that  daily  inter 
views  with  you  made  you  more  like  her  brother.  And 
there  I  had  the  advantage ;  I  was  comparatively  a 
stranger,  while  the  city  air  and  manner  I  had  studied  to 
acquire  were  not  without  their  effect  on  Anna.  She  was 
almost  an  angel,  but  human  still,  and  so  the  old  story 
was  again  repeated.  The  city  fop,  with  sin  enough  upon 
his  soul  to  have  driven  that  pure  young  girl  from  hig 
sight  forever,  could  she  have  known  it,  was  preferred  to 
the  country  boy.  But  it  was  hard  work,  and  more  than 
once  I  gave  up  in  despair,  as,  wringing  her  little  hands, 
she  cried: 

"  '  O  Robert^  don't  tempt  me  so.  I  do  love  Rich 
ard,  or  I  did  before  you  came,  and  he  is  so  good,  so  noble. 
God  will  never  forgive  me  if  I  deceive  him  so  dreadfully 
Please,  Robert,  don't  tempt  me  any  more.' 

"  YJU  can  imagine  how  I  answered  her.     There  wew 


196  ANNA. 

kisses  and  caress ss,  and  assurances  that  yc  i  wooldrathet 
give  her  up  than  take  her  when  her  heart  was  not  you* 
own,  and  so  the  victory  was  won,  and  I  acted  a  most 
cowardly  part.  I  made  Anna  promise  not  to  speak  of 
me  when  talking  with  you,  Richard,  or  hint  in  any  way 
that  I  was  the  cause  of  her  changed  feelings  toward  you, 
I  then  returned  to  New  York,  while  she  asked  to  be  re 
leased  from  her  engagement.  She  wrote  to  me  once,  bit 
terly  condemning  herself  for  her  deception,  as  she  termed 
it,  and  earnestly  begging  permission  to  tell  you  all,  but  I 
refused,  and  held  her  to  her  promise ;  and  so  matters 
stood  when  you  decided  upon  sending  her  to  Boston. 
You  know  she  came  first  to  New  York  to  Uncle  Jason's, 
whose  wife  is  both  deaf  and  half  blind,  so  she  was  not  in 
my  way  at  all.  After  you  returned  home,  Dick,  I  waa 
there  every  night,  and  as  Uncle  Jason  nodded  over  his 
paper  in  his  study,  while  Aunt  Eliza  nodded  over  her 
knitting  in  the  parlor,  I  had  every  opportunity  for  press 
ing  my  suit,  rejoicing  when  I  saw  how  I  could  sway 
Anna  at  my  will.  She  was  easily  influenced  by  those 
she  loved  and  trusted — " 

Here  Robert's  voice  trembled,  and  he  paused  a  mo 
ment  ere  he  resumed : 

"  She  believed  that  I  was  good,  and  this  belief,  more 
than  anything  I  could  say,  lead  her  to  listen  to  me.  She 
was  to  leave  on  Monday  for  Boston,  and  on  Saturday  I 
took  her  for  a  drive  through  the  city,  and  when  she  re» 


ANNA.  197 

turned  at  night  she  was  my  wife.  How  I  accomplished 
it  I  can  hardly  tell,  for  at  first  Anna  refused  outright,  but 
she  was  finally  persuaded,  and  at  the  house  of  a  clergy 
man  whom  I  knew  by  reputation  the  ceremony  was  per 
formed.  It  was  the  original  plan  that  when  her  visit  was 
over  I  should  accompany  her  home  and  announce  our 
marriage,  after  which  she  should  return  with  me  to  New 
York,  but  subsequent  events  made  this  impossible.  My 
uncle  had  commissioned  me  to  telegraph  to  the  friends  ia 
Boston  that  I  would  be  there  on  Monday  with  Anna,  and 
he  kindly  gave  me  permission  to  remain  a  few  days,  or 
even  longer  if  I  liked.  This  I  professed  to  have  done, 
but  it  was  a  lie  I  told  my  uncle,  who,  believing  Anna  to 
be  Dick's  betrothed,  had  no  suspicion  that  I  cared  for  her 
in  the  least  except  as  my  sister.  After  leaving  her  at  his 
door  on  Saturday  night,  I  purposely  did  not  see  her  again 
until  Monday,  when,  according  to  arrangement,  I  went 
ostensibly  to  accompany  her  to  Boston.  Ajina  knew 
nothing  of  my  real  intentions,  and  it  was  some  time  before 
she  understood  that  we  wei-e  going  to  Albany  instead  of 
New  Haven.  In  much  surprise  she  questioned  me,  turn 
ing  very  white  and  bursting  into  tears  when  the  truth 
dawned  upon  her,  and  she  saw  how  she  was  becoming 
more  entangled  in  the  deception.  We  stayed  in  Albany 
at  the  City  Hotel  until  Thursday  morning,  and  in  those 
three  days  I  was,  I  believe,  as  perfectly  happy  as  is  pos 
sible  for  mortal  man  to  be.  And  Anna  was  happy  toot 


198  ANNA. 

In  her  love  for  me  she  forgot  all  else,  and  I  tasted  fullj 
of  the  bliss  it  was  to  call  that  lovely,  gentle  creature  wife. 
I  remained  in  Boston  one  night,  but  Friday  found  me 
again  in  New  York,  while  one  week  from  the  next  Satur- 
urday  night, — O,  mother !  if  I  could  only  blot  out  that 
Saturday  night  from  the  past,  but  I  cannot,  and  I  must 
tell  you  how  low  your  boy  fell.  Knowing  how  good  and 
pure  Anna  was  I  resolved  that  henceforth  my  life  should 
be  such  as  she  could  approve,  and  to  this  end  I  would 
avoid  all  my  old  associates,  I  said,  and  never  again  fre 
quent  their  haunts  or  come  in  contact  with  them.  Chief 
among  these  associates  was  a  Stanley,  who  had  first  taught 
ine  to  play,  and  who  had  constantly  hovered  near  me  as 
my  evil  genius.  On  Saturday,  he  came  into  my  office, 
and  told  me  of  a  rare  specimen  from  Cincinnati  who  was 
terribly  conceited,  but  whom  /  could  beat  so  easily.  '  He 
lias  heaps  of  money,'  he  said,  '  and  if  you  choose  you  can 
make  a  fortune  in  an  hour.  Come  to-night,  and  you  we 
sure  to  win.' 

"Instantly  there  flashed  over  me  the  thought  'if 
A.nna  could  only  dress  and  live  like  the  ladies  of  Madison 
Square,'  but  with  it  came  the  knowledge  of  how  she  would 
disapprove,  and  I  hesitated.  The  temptation  was  a 
trong  one,  and  as  I  continued  to  listen  I  felt  my  good 
resolutions  giving  way.  Tust  for  once,  and  that  should  be 
the  last,  I  said,  consenting  to  join  my  comrade,  who  evi 
dently  believed  all  he  said  of  the  stranger.  Ten  o'clock 


ANNA.  199 

found  me  at  fj*anley's  rooms,  opposite  my  antagonist, 
wh)m  I  at  onc3  pronounced  a  fool.  Eleven  found  ma 
the  winner  of  a  considerable  amount.  Twelve  o'clock 
my  lucky  star  was  still  in  the  ascendant,  but  when  two 
o'clock  of  that  Sunday  morning  struck,  I  was  ruined,  and 
my  opponent  held  my  note  for  $20,000. 

"  Desperate,  distracted,  what  could  I  do  but  forg« 
my  uncle's  name  for  the  amount,  taking  the  precaution 
to  draw  from  three  or  four  banks  where  he  had  funds  de 
posited,  and  this  I  did  without  a  thought  of  the  conse 
quences  ;  but  when  I  woke  to  the  peril  of  my  situation  1 
was  mad  T/ith  fear,  and  determined  to  run  away.  But 
firit  I  wv7*.e  to  Anna,  telling  her  I  was  going,  but  with 
held  the  leason  why.  After  the  letter  was  sent  I  was 
seized  with  a  terror  lest  she  by  some  means  should  be 
tray  me,  and  so  I  be  brought  to  justice.  My  love  for  her 
was  strong,  but  dread  of  a  prison  life  was  stronger.  Of 
Uncle  Jason  I  asked  and  received  permission  to  visit 
Morrisville  for  a  week,  and  when  I  left  him  he  thought 
I  was  going  home,  but  I  went  instead  to  Boston,  reach 
ing  there  in  the  night,  and  next  morning  hiring  a  boy  to 
take  a  note  to  Anna.  She  was  alone  when  it  was  deliv 
ered,  as  the  family  were  out  on  some  shopping  expedi 
tion.  In  much  alarm  she  came  to  the  Revere,  where  1 
was  to  meet  her,  and  there  the  horrible  truth  was  re 
vealed  that  she  was  the  wife  of  a  felon.  She  Lad  not  re* 
oeWed  my  letter,  and  what  I  told  her  was  wholly  unex 


800  ANNA. 

pected.  She  did  not  faint,  nor  scream,  nor  even  reproach 
me  with  my  dn.  She  merely  sank  upon  her  knees  and 
prayed  that  I  might  be  forgiven,  while  into  her  eyes  and 
face  there  stole  a  look  which  I  know  now  to  have  been 
the  germ  of  insanity  which  afterwards  came  upon  her. 

"  '  Anna,'  I  said,  when  her  prayer  was  ended  and  she 
sat  with  her  face  upon  the  table, '  I  am  going  to  England 
in  a  vessel  which  sails  to-night,  and  from  there  to  Cali 
fornia,  assuming  the  name  of  John  Maxwell,  and  you 
must  not  betray  me.' 

"  *  Betray  you !  O  Robert !  "  and  the  face  she  lifted 
\ip  looked  as  grieved  as  if  I  had  struck  her. 

"  '  I  know  you  will  not  do  it  voluntarily,'  I  said,  '  but 
you  must  not  make  yourself  liable  to  be  questioned.  No 
one  knows  I  am  here.  No  one  knows  you  are  my  wife, 
and  no  one  must  know  it.  Not  yet,  at  least  not  till  it  is 
settled  somehow,  and  I  come  back  to  claim  you,  or  send 
for  you  to  join  me.' 

"  Again  she  looked  wistfully  at  me,  and  I  continued : 
*  If  Uncle  Jason  knew  you  were  my  wife,  he  would  ques 
tion  and  cross-question  you  until  he  frightened  it  out  of 
you,  and  I  should  be  captured.  I  deserve  to  go  to  prison, 
I  know,  but  Anna,  darling,  think  how  terrible  for  one  so 
young  to  be  shut  out  from  this  world,  wearing  my  life 
away.  Promise,  Anna,  and  I  will  be  a  better  man ;  I 
will  earn  enough  to  pay  it  bade  Promise,  if,  indeed,  you 
love  me.1 


201 

"  I  was  kneeling  at  her  feet,  sueing  almost  for  my  life. 
I  was  her  husband,  and  she  loved  me,  erring  as  I  was,  and 
•he  promised  at  last  to  keep  her  marriage  a  secret  until  J 
said  she  might  tell.  I  ought  to  have  been  satisfied  with 
her  word,  but  each  moment  the  dread  of  arrest  grew 
greater,  and  taking  the  Bible  which  lay  upon  the  table,  I 
said,  *  Swear  with  your  hand  on  this.' 

"  Then  she  hesitated,  but  I  carried  my  point,  and  with 
her  hand  on  the  book  she  loved  so  much,  she  took  an  oath 
not  to  tell,  and  fell  fainting  to  the  floor.  I  restored  her 
as  soon  as  possible,  and  led  her  through  obscure  streets 
back  to  Mr.  Haverleigh's  dwelling.  I  dared  not  kiss  hor 
as  I  parted  with  her  at  the  gate,  for  it  was  broad  day,  but 
I  shall  never  forget  the  look  in  her  eyes  as  they  rested  on 
my  face,  while  she  said,  *  Good-by,  Robert.  Ask  Gn>d 
daily  to  forgive  you  as  I  shall  do.' 

"  I  wrung  her  cold,  damp  hand,  and  hurried  away, 
seeing  the  Haverleigh  carriage  drive  up  the  street  just  as  \ 
turned  into  another,  and  knew  that  Anna  must  have  been 
safe  in  her  room  when  the  family  returned/' 

"  Poor  Anna,"  sobbed  Mrs.  West.  «  That  was  the  - 
time  when  Rosa  Haverleigh  found  her  upon  the  floor 
totally  unconscious.  She  was  never  herself  after  that, 
and  as  they  could  not  rouse  her  to  an  interest  in  anything, 
they  sent  her  back  to  us,  a  white-faced,  frightened,  hall 
crazed  creature  even  then.  O  Robert,  my  son,  ho~w 
much  sorrow  you  have  wrought,"  and  the  poor  mothei 


202  ANITA. 

wept  piteously  as  she  remembered  the  young  girl  •whom  sh« 
in  thought  had  wronged,  and  who  she  now  knew  had  died 
for  the  erring  Robert,  and  kept  silence  even  when  to  do 
so  was  to  bring  disgrace  and  death  upon  herself. 

t(  Tnily  Anna  died  a  martyr's  death,"  Richard  mur 
mured,  feeling  now  how  glad  he  was  that  he  had  held  her 
in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  quivering  lips  with  the  kiss  of 
forgiveness,  when  all  else  stood  aloof  as  from  a  sinful 
thing, 

"  Yes,  a  martyr's  death,"  Robert  repeated  sadly ;  "  and 
borne  time  you  will  tell  me  how  she  died  and  about  her 
child,  but  now  I  hasten  on  with  the  part  which  concerns 
myself.  I  went  to  England  and  then  to  California,  work 
ing  in  the  gold  mines  like  a  dog,  and  literally  starving 
myself  for  the  sake  of  gain.  I  would  pay  that  debt,  I 
said,  and  I  would  yet  be  worthy  of  Anna.  It  was  some 
time  in  October  that  I  stumbled  upon  a  Boston  paper  in 
which  was  a  notice  of  Anna's  death,  put  in  by  the  Haver- 
leighs,  I  presume,  as  they  were  greatly  attached  to  her.  I 
knew  it  was  my  Anna,  and  that  I  had  killed  her,  and  for 
.  a  time  reason  and  life  forsook  me.  I  was  sick  for  weeks, 
and  when  I  came  back  to  life,  Stanley,  the  man  who  first 
taught  me  to  sin,  was  taking  care  of  me.  He,  too,  had 
come  to  the  land  of  gold,  finding  me  by  mere  chance,  and 
knowing  at  once  that  I  was  not  John  Maxwell,  as  I  had 
given  out.  But  he  betrayed  no  secrets,  and  since  then 
has  proved  the  old  adage  that  there  is  honor  even  among 


A1TNA.  203 

thieves.  By  some  means  he  had  ascertained  that  in  con 
sideration  of  a  sum  of  money  paid  by  you,  together  with 
your  promise  of  the  whole,  Uncle  Jason  had  concluded 
to  say  nothing  of  my  forgery.  He  'had  also  heard  that 
West  Lawn  was  sold,  and  I  knew  well  what  prompted 
this  sacrifice,  and  cursed  myself  for  the  sinful  wretch 
I  was.  Stanley  did  not  remain  in  California  longer  than 
spring,  but  returned  to  New  York,  from  which  place  he 
has  occasionally  written  and  given  me  tidings  of  home. 
At  my  request  he  has  at  four  different  times  been  to 
Morris ville,  and. reported  to  me  what  he  learned.  In  this 
way  I  heard  of  Itobin,  and  I  know  that  thoughts  of  him 
have  helped  to  make  me  a  better  man. 

"  By  some  strange  chance  Stanley  was  there  whe>« 
Robin  died,  and  mingling  with  those  who  followed  m* 
child  to  the  grave,  he  saw  you,  mother,  and  Dick,  and  a 
young  lady  was  with  you,  he  said,  a  fair  young  girl,  whom 
Dick  called  Dora.  Is  she  to  be  your  wife  ?  "  and  he  turned 
towards  Richard,  who,  with  a  half  moa*n,  replied,  "  I 
hoped  so  once,  but  I  have  lost  her  now." 

Robett  pressed  the  hands  of  his  brother  in  token  of 
sympathy,  and  then  continued :  "  I  never  saw  my  boy,  but 
I  wept  bitterly  when  I  heard  he  was  dead,  while  my  de 
sire  to  return  was  materially  lessened ;  but  this  feeling 
wore  away,  and  I  came  again  to  look  eagerly  forward  to 
the  time  when  with  the  gold  in  my  hand  I  could  go  baclr 
and  pay  the  heavy  dobt  I  owe  you." 


204  ANNA. 

"  Did  you  never  hear  directly  from  Anna  ?  "  Richard 
•sked,  remembering  the  letter  sent  to  California. 

"  Yes,  once ;  and  it  made  me  for  a  time  almost  as  mad 
M  my  darling.  I  was  up  in  the  mountains  when  I  read 
it,  and  the  livelong  night  I  lay  upon  the  ground,  crying 
as  men  are  not  apt  to  cry.  I  have  that  letter  now.  It  is 
in  my  wallet.  Would  you  like  to  see  it  ?  " 

A  moment  after  Dr.  West  held  in  his  hand  a  v orn, 
yellow  paper,  on  which  were  traced  the  last  words  over 
written  by  the  unfortunate  Anna,  words  which  made  the 
doctor's  chest  heave  with  anguish  as  he  read  them,  wh'vle 
his  mother  sobbed  hysterically.  A  part  o?  this  letter  *  « 
transcribe  for  the  reader  : 

*  *  *  «  j  am  in  a  mad-house,  darling,  where  ar* 
so  many,  many  crazy  people,  and  they  say  that  I  am  crazy 
too.  It's  only  the  secret  in  my  head  and  heart  which 
makes  them  burn  so  cruelly.  Richard  and  mother 
brought  me  here.  Poor  Richard  looks  so  white  and 
sorry,  and  speaks  so  kindly  of  you,  wondering  where  you 
are,  that  once  I  bit  my  tongue  until  it  bled,  to  keep  from 
telling  what  I  knew.  If  I  had  not  promised  with  my 
hand  upon  the  Bible,  I  am  sure  I  snould  tell,  but  that 
eath  haunts  me  day  and  night,  and  I  dare  not  break  it, 
so  now  I  never  talk,  and  I  was  glad  when  they  brought 
me  here,  for  it  was  safer  so.  It  was  dreadful  at  first,  and 
sometimes  I  most  wished  I  could  die,  but  God  is  here 
rust  as  He  is  in  Mcrrisville,  and  at  last  I  prayed  to  Him 


ANNA.  205 

u  I  used  to  do.  You  see  I  forgot  to  pray  for  a  arhile,  ii 
was  so  terrible,  and  I  thought  I  was  lost  forever,  but  I've 
found  God  again,  and  I  don't  mind  the  dreadful  place. 
Everybody  is  kind  to  me,  everybody  says  '  poor  girl,'  and 
you  need  not  worry  because  I  am  here.  I  pray  for  yon 
every  minute,  and  God  will  hear  and  save  you,  because 
He  has  promised,  and  God  never  lies.  Dear,  darling 
Robert,  if  I  dared  tell  you  something,  it  might  perhapa 
bring  you  home  to  spare  me  from  the  shame  which  is 
surely  coming,  unless  I  tell,  and  that  I've  sworn  not  to 
do.  It  makes  me  blush  to  write  it,  and  so  I  guess  I 
won't ;  but  just  imagine,  if  I  was  your  wife  before  all  the 
world,  and  we  were  living  somewhere  alone,  and  Richard 
did  not  love  me,  as  I  know  he  does,  and  folks  called  me 
Mrs.  West  instead  of  poor  Anna,  and  you  always  hurried 
home  at  night  to  see  me,  wouldn't  it  be  nice  if  we  had  a 
little  baby  between  us  to  love,  you  because  it  was  Anna's, 
and  I  because  it  was  Robert's !  But  now,  O  Robert, 
what  shall  I  do,  with  you  away,  and  that  Bible  oath  in 
my  heart.  God  will  help  me,  I  hope,  and  perhaps  take 
me  home  to  him,  where  they  know  I  am  innocent.  Poo: 
Richard,  I  pity  him  most  when  he  comes  to  know  it,  but 
God  will  care  for  him,  and  when  I  am  gone  he  will  find 
Bonie  other  one  more  worthy  than  I  for  him  to  love. 

t(  There  came  a  young  girl  here  yesterday,  not  to  stay, 
for  her  brains  all  were  sound,  but  with  some  more  to  look 
»t  us,  and  as  they  reached  my  door  I  heard  tha  attendant 


206  ANNA. 

whisper  something  of  me,  while  the  stranger  came  up  to 
me  and  said : 

"  (  Poor  girl,  does  your  head  ache  very  hard  ?  '  and  sLe 
put  her  hand  so  gently  on  my  hair ;  but  I  would  not  look 
up,  and  she  went  on  with  her  companion,  who  called  her 
Dora.  I  don't  know  why  her  voice  made  me  think  of 
Richard,  but  it  did,  it  was  so  soft  and  pitiful,  just  like 
his  when  he  speaks  to  me.  It  made  me  cry,  and  I  prayed 
carefully  to  myself,  f  God  send  to  Richard  another  love, 
with  a  voice  and  manner  like  Dora.'  "  *  *  * 

Richard  could  read  no  farther,  but  dropping  the  let 
ter  upon  the  bed,  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and 
moaned : 

"  Darling  Anna,  your  prayer  will  never  be  answered, 
but  I  thank  you  for  it  all  the  same,  and  I  am  so  glad 
that  I  never  forsook  nor  quite  lost  faith  in  you.  O 
Anna!  O  Dora!  Dora!"  . 

The  last  name  was  wrung  from  him  inadvertently, 
but  Robert  caught  it  up  and  said  : 

"  Was  the  Dora  who  was  with  you  at  Robin's  grave 
the  same  of  whom  Anna  speaks  ?  " 

"  I  think  so, — yes,  I  am  sure,  for  she  once  told  me  of  a 
visit  made  to  the  asylum,  and  related  an  incident  similar 
to  this  which  Anna  mentions." 

"  Then  Dick,"  and  Robert  spoke  reverently  but  de 
cidedly,  "  then  she  will  be  yours.  Anna  prayed  for  it 
once,  and  I  have  implicit  faith  in  Anna's  prayers.  They 


ANITA.  207 

followed  me  over  land  and  sea,  bringing  me  at  last  to  the 
fountain  of  all  peace." 

Richard  made  no  reply  to  this,  but  asked  reproachfully 
why  his  brother  did  not  hasten  home  after  receiving  that 
touching  message  from  Anna. 

"  The  letter  was  a  long  time  coming,"  Robert  said. 
"  And  as  I  was  not  expecting  ifc,  I  never  inquired  at  the 
post-office  until  I  saw  it  advertised.  It  was  then  the 
first  of  September,  and  Anna  was  already  dead,  but  thia 
I  did  not  know,  and  I  was  making  up  my  mind  to  brave 
even  a  prison  for  her  sake,  when  I  saw  that  paper  which 
told  me  of  her  death.  The  rest  you  know,  except,  in 
deed,  the  debt  of  gratitude  I  owe  to  you  and  mother  foi 
all  your  kindness  to  my  wife  and  boy,  and  for  the  love 
with  which  you  have  ever  cherished  me.  If  I  get  well,  I 
trust  my  life  will  show  that  a  wretch  like  me  can  reform. 
I  have  money  enough  to  pay  the  debt  with  interest,  and, 
Richard,  it  is  all  yours,  earned  for  you,  and  hoarded  aa 
carefully  as  miser  ever  hoarded  his  gains.  But  now  tell 
me  of  Anna  at  the  last.  Did  no  one  suspect  she  was  my 
wife?" 

"  No  one  but  myself,  and  I  did  not  till  she  was  dying," 
Richard  replied.  "  No  one  dreamed  of  questioning  her 
of  you,  and  so  she  was  spared  that  pain." 

And  then  he  told  Robert  the  sad  story  which  oui^ 
readers  already  know,  the  story  of  Anna's  death,  of 
Robin's  birth,  and  his  short  life,  while  Robert,  listening 


208  ANNA. 

to  it,  atoned  for  all  the  wrong  by  the  anguish  he  endured 
and  the  tears  he  shed,  as  the  narrative  proceeded.  At 
last,  when  it  was  finished,  he  sank  back  upon  his  pillow, 
wholly  exhausted  with  excitement  and  fatigue. 

For  weeks  after  that  he  hovered  so  near  the  verge  of 
death  that  even  the  mother  despaired,  and  looked  each 
day  to  see  the  life  go  out  from  her  child,  who  in  his  boy 
hood  had  never  been  so  dear  to  her  as  now.  But  youth 
and  a  strong  constitution  triumphed,  and  again  the  fevei 
abated,  leaving  the  sick  man  as  weak  and  helpless  as  a 
child,  but  anxious  for  the  day  when  he  would  be  able  to 
make  the  homeward  voyage. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

BICHAHD. 

|O  ab«rbed  was  Mrs.  West  in  Bobert  that  sht 
seldom  noticed  Richard,  and  so  she  paid  no  heed 
when  he  one  day  came  into  the  sick-room,  look 
ing  whiter  even  than  his  brother,  by  whose  side  he  sat 
down  as  usual,  doing  for  him  the  many  offices  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  perform,  and  except  for  his  suffering 
face,  giving  no  token  of  the  terrible  pain  which  wrung 
his  heart  when  he  that  morning  read  in  Jessie's  letter  that 
the  worst  he  had  feared  was  true,  and  that  Dora  was  to 
be  married  in  September. 

"  For  a  person  just  engaged  she  acts  very  strangely,* 
Jessie  wrote,  "  and  Bell  will  insist  that  she  does  not  love 
her  future  lord,  but  is  marrying  him  from  some  mistaken 
sense  of  duty.  What  do  you  think  ?  " 

Dr.  West  could  not  tell  what  he  thought,  he  only  knew 
that  his  brain  grew  giddy,  and  his  soul  faint  and  sick  aa 
he  realized  that  Dora  was  lost  to  him  forever.  Never 
even  when  Anna  died  had  he  suffered  so  keen  a  pang  at 
now,  when  in  the  solitude  of  his  chamber  he  tried  to  pray, 
while  the  words  he  would  utter  died  away  in  unmeaning 


210  RICHARD. 

Bounds.  But  God,  who  readeth  the  inmost  secrets  of  the 
heart,  knew  what  his  poor  sorrowing  child  would  ask,  and 
the  needed  strength  to  bear  was  given  all  the  same. 

It  was  very  tedious  now,  waiting  in  that  sick-room,  for 
there  crept  into  Richard's  mind  the  half  conviction  that 
if  he  would  see  Dora  for  only  one  brief  moment,  he  could 
save  her  from  the  sacrifice.  But  Robert's  improvement 
was  slow,  and  day  after  day  went  by,  until  at  last  there 
came  a  morning  when  there  was  put  into  Richard's  hand 
a  soiled,  worn-looking  letter,  whose  superscription  made 
his  heart  for  an  instant  stop  its  beatings,  for  he  recognized 
Dora's  handwriting,  and  involuntarily  pressed  the  missive 
to  his  lips  ere  he  broke  the  seal.  It  had  been  weeks  and 
weeks  upon  the  road,  lying  for  a  long  time  in  another 
office,  but  it  had  come  to  him  at  last ;  he  had  torn  the 
envelope  open ;  he  was  reading  Dora's  cry  for  help,  written 
so  long  ago,  a  cry  to  which  he  gave  a  far  different  inter- 
preta  ion  from  what  she  had  intended. 

ff  Oh,  why  did  I  not  speak  to  her  again  1 "  he  exclaimed ; 
"  why  was  I  permitted  to  form  so  wrong  an  estimate  of 
woman's  character  ?  But  it  is  not  yet  too  late.  The 
wedding  is  to  be  the  15th  of  September,  Jessie  wrote. 
A  steamer  sails  from  here  in  a  few  days,  and  Robert 
must  be  able  by  that  time  to  leave  California,  or  if  he  ia 
not  ]  shall  leave  him  behind  with  mother  and  fly  to 
Pora.  Oh  if  I  could  go  to-day !  " 

An  hour  later,  and  Robert  knew  all  there  was  to  know 


R1CHAED.  211 

of  Dora  as  conne  ;ted  with  his  brother,  and  warmly  ap 
proved  the  plan  of  sailing  in  the  Raritan.  I  shall  grow 
stronger  on  the  sea,  he  said,  and  the  result  proved  that 
he  was  right,  for  when  at  last  the  Raritan.  was  loosened 
from  her  moorings  and  gliding  swiftly  over  the  blue 
waters  of  the  Pacific,  he  lay  on  her  deck,  drinking  in  new 
strength  and  vigor  with  each  freshening  breeze.  But 
with  Richard  it  was  different.  Now  that  they  were 
really  off,  and  Robert  needed  comparatively  little  of  hia 
help,  he  sank  beneath  the  load  of  anxiety  and  excitement, 
and  taking  to  his  berth,  scarcely  lifted  his  head  from  the 
pillow  while  the  ship  went  gliding  on  towards  home  and 
Dora  Freeman. 


CHAPTER 

THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  THE  WEDDING. 

JEVER  had  a  summer  passed  so  slowly  (o  Dora 
Freeman  as  had  the  last,  and  yet  now  that  it 
was  gone,  it  seemed  to  her  scarcely  more  than  a 
week  since  the  night  she  had  said  words  from  which  re 
sulted  all  the  busy  preparations  going  on  around  her :  the 
bridal  dresses  packed  away  in  heavy  travelling  trunks,  for 
they  were  going  to  Europe  too, — the  perfect  happiness  of 
Johnnie,  who,  twenty  times  each  day,  kissed  her  ten 
derly,  whispering,  "  I  am  so  glad  that  you  are  to  be  my 
mother  " — the  noisy  demonstrations  of  the  younger  ones, 
and  the  great  joy  which  beamed  all  over  the  Squire's  hon 
est  face  each  time  he  looked  at  his  bride-elect  and  thought 
how  soon  she  would  be  his.  Gradually  the  pressure 
about  Dora's  heart  and  brain  had  loosened,  and  she  did 
not  feel  just  as  she  had  done  when  she  first  promised  to 
be  Squire  Russell's  wife.  She  had  accustomed  herself 
to  the  idea,  until  each  thought  did  not  bring  a  throb  of 
pain,  while  the  excitement  of  getting  ready,  and  the  an 
ticipated  tour  to  places  she  had  never  expected  to  see, 
had  afforded  her  some  little  satisfaction.  She  knew  that 


THE  NTOHT  BEFORE  THE   WEDDING.      213 

the  world  generally  looked  at  her  in  wonder,  while  Bell 
and  Mattie  totally  disapproved,  both  framing  some  ex 
cuse  for  not  being  present  at  the  wedding.  But  as  is 
usually  the  case  opposition  only  helped  the  matter  by 
making  her  more  determined  to  do  what  she  really  be- 
Jieved  to  be  her  duty.  Besides  this  she  was  strengthened 
and  upheld  by  Johnnie,  who  was  to  be  the  companion  of 
her  travels,  and  who  always  came  between  her  and  every 
sharp,  rough  point,  smoothing  the  latter  down  and  mak 
ing  all  so  bright  and  easy  that  she  blessed  him  as  her 
good  angel.  Owing  to  his  constant  vigilance,  his  father 
was  not  often  very  demonstrative  of  his  affection,  except 
by  looks  and  deeds  done  for  her  gratification,  but  still  there 
were  times  when,  Johnnie  being  off  guard,  the  father 
acted  the  fond  lover  to  the  pale,  shrinking  girl,  who,  shut 
ting  her  teeth  firmly  together,  Buffered  his  caresses  be 
cause  she  must,  but  gave  him  back  no  answering  token  ol 
affection.  Sometimes  this  quiet  coldness  troubled  him, 
particularly  as  Letitia  and  Jimmie  both  asked  him  at 
different  times  why  Auntie  cried  so  much, — tc  did  every 
body  just  before  they  were  married  ?  Did  mother  ?  " 

After  Jessie  came,  Dora  felt  a  great  deal  better,  for 
Jessie  made  the  future  anything  but  gloomy.  Jessie  waf 
like  a  brilliant  diamond,  flashing  and  sparkling,  and  singing 
and  dancing  and  whistling  until  the  house  seemed  like 
,a  different  place,  and  even  Squire  Russell  wished  he 
could  keep  her  there  forever. 


214     THE  NI&HT  "BEFORE  THE   WEDDING. 

And  now  it  -was  the  day  before  the  bridal.  Every 
trunk  was  packed,  and  everything  was  ready  for  the  cer 
emony,  which  was  to  oocur  at-  an  early  hour  in  the  morn 
ing,  as  the  bridal  pair  were  to  take  the  first  train  for 
New  York.  Jessie  upon  the  grassy  lawn  was  romping 
with  the  children,  and  occasionally  addressing  some  saucy, 
teasing  remark  to  the  bridegroom-elect,  who  was  smoking 
his  cigar  demurely  beneath  the  trees,  and  wishing  Dora 
would  join  them.  But  Dora  was  differently  employed. 
With  the  quiet  which  had  suddenly  fallen  upon  the  house 
hold,  a  terrible  reaction  had  come  to  her,  and  as  if  waking 
from  some  horrid  nightmare,  she  began  to  realize  her  pos 
ition,  to  feel  that  only  a  few  hours  lay  between  herself 
and  a  living  death.  Vaguely,  too,  she  began  to  see  how, 
with  every  morning  mail,  there  had  come  a  shadowy  hope 
that  something  might  be  received  from  Dr.  West,  that  in 
some  way  he  would  yet  save  her  from  Squire  Russell. 
But  for  months  no  news  had  been  received  of  him  by  any 
one,  and  now  the  last  lingering  hope  had  died,  leaving 
only  a  feeling  of  despair.  She  could  not  even  write  a 
line  in  her  journal,  and  once  she  thought  to  burn  it,  but 
something  stayed  the  act,  and  'mid  a  rain  of  tears,  she 
laid  it  away,  resolving  never  to  open  its  lids  again  until 
her  heart  ached  less  than  it  was  aching  now. 

"  I  shall  get  over  it,  I  know,"  she  moaned,  as  she 
geated  herself  by  the  window.  "  If  I  thought  I  should 
not,  1  would  go  to  Squire  Russell  before  the  whole  world, 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  THE    WEDDING.      215 

and  on  my  knees  would  beg  to  be  released ;  but  I  am  tired 
now,  and  excited,  and  everything  looks  so  dark, — even 
my  pleasant  chamber  is  so  close  that  I  can  scarcely 
breathe.  I  wonder  if  the  breeze  from  the  lake  would  not 
revive  me.  I'll  try  it, — I'll  go  there.  I'll  sib  where 
Richard  and  I  once  sat.  I'll  listen  to  the  music  of  the 
waves  just  as  I  listened  then,  and  if  this  does  not  quiet 
me,  if  the  horror  is  still  with  me, — perhaps — 

There  was  a  hard,  terrible  look  in  Dora's  eyes  as  the 
evil  thought  first  flashed  upon  her,  a  look  which  grew 
more  and  more  desperate  as  she  began  to  wonder  how 
deep  the  waters  were  near  the  shore,  and  if  the  verdict 
wimld  be "  accidental  drowning,  "  and  if  Dr.  West  would 
care. 

Alas  for  Dora !  the  tempter  was  whispering  horrible 
things  to  her,  and  she,  poor,  half-crazed  girl,  was  listening  to 
him  as  she  stole  from  the  back  door,  and  took  her  way  across 
the  fields  to  where  the  waters  of  the  lake  lay  sparklit  g  in 
fchfe  September  sun  now  low  in  the  western  horizon. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

DO  5m   BY   THE   LAKE   SHOEffl!. 

jllli!  shadowy  woods  which  skirt  tha  lake  shore 
teL  no  tales  of  what  they  see,  neither  Jo  the 
mossy  rocks,  nor  yet  the  plashing  waves  kissing 
the  pebbly  beach,  and  so  Dora  was  free  to  pour  out  her 
griefs,  knowing  there  was  no  listening  human  ear,  and 
forgetting  for  a  time  that  there  was  an  eye  which  kept 
watch  over  her,  as  with  her  face  upon  the  yielding 
sand  she  moaned  so  piteously.  She  could  not  sit  where 
she  and  Richard  sat,  and  so  she  chose  the  project 
ing  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree,  and  sat  where  her  feet  could 
touch  the  water  below  if  she  should  wish  it  so,  as  once 
she  did,  dipping  the  tip  of  her  thin  slipper,  and  holding 
it  there  till  it  was  wet  through  to  see  what  the  feeling 
was  I 

Dora  did  not  try  to  pray.  She  never  thought  of  that, 
but  only  remembered  how  desolate,  how  miserable  she 
was,  vainly  imagining  that  to  rest  beneath  the  waters 
lying  so  calmly  at  her  feet  was  to  end  all  the  pain,  the 
misery,  and  woe. 

The  sun  was  going  down  the  west  now  very  fast,  and 


DOWN  BY  THE  LAKE  SHORE.  217 

OTkt  upon  the  bosom  of  the  lake,  at  some  distance  from 
the  shore,  it  cast  a  gleam  like  burnished  gold,  and  Dora, 
gazing  wistfully  upon  it,  fancied  that  if  she  could  but 
reach  that  spot,  and  sink  into  that  golden  glory,  it  would 
b«)  well  with  her.  No  thoughts  of  the  hereafter  crossed 
her  disordered  mind,  and  so  she  sat  and  watched  the 
shining  spot,  until  there  came  to  her  a  memory  of  the 
night  when  Robin  died,  and  the  time  when  the  sunshine 
round  Anna's  picture  looked  like  the  bed  of  fire  upon 
the  lake. 

"  They  are  in  heaven,"  she  said  ;  adding  mournfully, 
"  and  where  is  that  heaven  ?  " 

"  Not  where  they  go  who  take  their  lives  in  their  own 
hands,"  seemed  whispered  in  her  ear,  and  with  a  shudder 
she  woke  to  the  great  peril  of  her  position. 

"  Save  me,  O  God !  "  she  sobbed,  as  she  moved  cau 
tiously  back  from  her  seat  upon  the  tree,  breathing  freer 
when  she  knew  that  beneath  her  there  was  no  dark,  cold 
water  into  which  she  could  dip  her  feet  at  pleasure. 

She  had  dipped  them  th.3re  until  both  hose  and  slip 
pers  were  dripping  wet,  but  this  she  did  not  heed,  and 
once  off  from  the  tree,  she  sat  down  where  Richard  sat, 
and  tried  to  look  the  present  calmly  in  the  face, — to  see  if 
there  were  not  some  bright,  happy  spots,  if  she  would  but 
accept  them.  With  her  head  bowed  down,  she  did  not 
&ear  the  footstep  coming  through  the  woods,  and  draw- 
lag  near  to  her  ;  but  when  a  strange  voice  said  interroga- 
10 


218  DOWN  BY  THE  LAKE  8HORH. 

tively,  "  Miss  Freeman  ?  "  she  started  and  uitered  a 
•vous  cry,  for  the  face  she  saw  was  the  face  of  a  sti anger, 
And  yet  it  was  so  like  to  Dr.  West,  that  she  looked 
Again  to  reassure  herself. 

"  I  am  Robert  "West,"  the  man  began,  abruptly.  "  I 
am  Richard's  brother.  He  sent  me  here, — he  sent  me  to 
his  -Dora,  and  you  are  she." 

For  an  instant  a  tumultuous  throb  of  joy  shot  through 
Dora's  heart,  but  it  quickly  passed,  as  she  answered 
Robert : 

"  You  are  mistaken,  sir.  I  am  to  be  Squire  RusselPa 
wife  to-morrow." 

Sitting  down  beside  her,  Robert  repeated  rapidly  a 
part  of  what  the  reader  already  knows,  telling  her  of 
Anna,  of  his  own  sin,  and  exonerating  Richard  from  all 
blame.  Then  he  told  her  of  the  meeting  in  California, 
of  his  long  illness, — of  Richard's'  anguish  when  he  heard 
that  she  was  to  be  married, — of  the  reaction  when  that 
letter  so  long  in  coming  was  received, — of  his  haste  to 
embark  for  home,  and  his  illness  during  the  voyage, — 
illness  which  made  him  so  weak  that  he  was  brought 
from  New  York  on  pillows,  and  partly  in  his  brother's 
arms. 

"  But  he  has  reached  here  in  safety,"  Robert  con- 
einued.  "  He  arrived  perhaps  an  hour  ago.  He  is  at 
his  old  boarding-place,  Miss  Markham's,  and  mother  is 
then  with  him.  He  knows  you  are  not  married  yet,  a»d 


DOWN  BT  THE  LAKE  SHORE.  219 

would  have  come  to  you  himself,  but  for  his  illness, 
which  made  it  impossible,  and  so  he  sent  me  to  say  that 
even  as  he  loves  you,  so  he  believes  that  you  love  him, 
and  to  beg  of  you  not  to  sacrifice  your  happiness  to  a 
mistaken  sense  of  duty.  You  could  not  be  found  when 
I  inquired  for  you,  but  a  servant  said  she  saw  you  going 
towards  the  lake,  and  as  she  pointed  me  the  way,  I  came 
on  until  I  found  you.  Miss  Freeman,  you  know  my 
brother,  and  know  that  there  lives  no  better,  more  up 
right  man,  or  one  who  will  make  you  happier  as  your 
husband.  You  have  heard  my  errand,  and  now  what 
word  shall  I  take  back  to  Richard,  or  will  you  go  your- 
Belf  and  see  him  ?  " 

Dora  had  sat  like  one  stunned  as  Robert  told  his 
story ;  hope,  joy,  and  despair  alternately  succeeding  each 
other  in  her  heart  as  she  listened.  At  a  glance,  too,  she 
took  in  all  the  difficulties  of  her  position,  and  saw  how 
impossible  it  was  for  her  to  overcome  them.  This  was 
in  her  mind  when  Robert  asked  if  she  would  go  to  Rich 
ard,  and  with  a  bitter  moan  she  answered  : 

"  No,  no ;  oh  no !  he  has  come  too  late.  I  cannot 
break  my  word  to  John,  and  he  trusting  me  so  fully 
Tell  Richard  it  might  have  been,  but  cannot  be  now." 

Again  Robert  West  pleaded  for  his  brother,  and  foi 
tho  poor  heart-broken  girl  beside  him,  but  her  answei 
was  just  the  same : 

"  It  might  have  been,  but  cannot  be  now." 


220  DOWN  BY  THE  LAKE  SHORE. 

Ab  last  as  it  grew  darker  around  them,  and  tho  night 
dew  made  Dora  shiver,  Robert  gave  up  the  contest,  ana 
Bald: 

"  You  must  go  home,  Miss  Freeman.  It  is  impm 
dent  to  stay  here  longer  in  the  damp  night  air.  I  am 
satisfied  that  you  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying,  and 
BO  I  shall  see  Squire  Russell,  and  acquaint  him  with  the 
whole." 

In  an  instant  Dora  was  on  her  knees,  begging  that  her 
betrothed  might  be  spared  this  pain. 

"Think  of  the  sorrow,  the  disappointment,  the  dis 
grace, — for  to-morrow  morning  early  is  the  wedding,  and 
everybody  knows.  Why,  our  passage  to  Europe  is  se 
cured,  and  we  must  go." 

"  Not  if  I  have  the  power  to  prevent  it,"  was  Robert's 
reply,  as  he  led  her  across  the  fields,  still  insisting  that 
he  should  see  Squire  Russell. 

At  last,  when  she  saw  how  much  in  earnest  he  was,  she 
said,  "  I  will  tell  him  myself ;  I  can  do  it  more  gently, 
and  it  will  not  hurt  so  much.  Don't  go  to  him,  but 
leave  it  with  me." 

"  Will  you  tell  him  all  and  ask  to  be  released  ?  "  Rob 
ert  said,  making  her  stand  still  while  she  replied,  "  I'll 
tell  him  all,  how  I  love  Richard  best ;  but  I  shall  not  ask 
to  be  released." 

Robert  was  satisfied,  for  from  what  he  had  heard  of 


DOWN  BY  THE  LAKE  SHORE.  221 

Squire  Russell  he  believed  he  "would  never  require  of 
Dora  so  great  a  sacrifice 

"  I  shall  be  here  with  the  early  dawn,"  he  said,  as  he 
left  her  at  the  gate. 

Bora  did  not  reply,  but  stood  with  her  eyes  riveted 
upon  the  house  across  the  street,  where  she  knew  was 
Dr.  West.  There  was  a  light  shining  from  the  windows 
of  the  upper  room,  while  the  figure  of  a  woman  wearing 
a  widow's  cap  was  occasionally  seen  passing  to  and  fro. 

"  That  is  Richard's  room,"  she  whispered,  feeling  aa 
intense  desire  to  fly  at  once  to  his  side  and  assert  he* 
right  to  stay  there. 

Then,  remembering  her  promise  to  Robert,  she  walked 
slowly  to  the  house,  meeting  in  the  door  with  Johnnie, 
who,  wild  with  excitement,  exclaimed,  "  Hurrah,  guess 
who  hfts  come !  Dr.  West, — and  I  have  been  in  to  see 
him.  He's  whiter  than  a  ghost,  and  what  is  funny,  hia 
chin  fairly  shook  when  I  told  him  I  was  to  have  a  new 
mother  to-morrow,  and  what  do  you  think,  that  woman, 
his  mother,  put  me  out  of  the  room  and  said  too  much 
talking  hurt  him.  Did  you  know  he  was  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  knew,  Johnnie ;  where's  your  father  ?  "  Dora 
asked,  feeling  that  if  she  waited  lo-iger  her  courage  would 
give  way. 

"  Father's  in  the  library,  and  he's  ordered  us  young 
sters  to  keep  out.  I  guess  he's  expecting  you,  for  he 
asked  lots  of  times  where  you  was,  and  nobody 


222  DOWN  BY  THE  LAKE  SHORE. 

Jessie's  ove.*  there,"  and  Johnnie  jerked  his  sLoulder  in 
the  direction  of  the  doctor's  window. 

Very  slowly,  as  if  going  to  her  grave,  Dora  walked  tvti 
till  she  came  to  the  library  door.  It  was  shut,  and  as 
she  stood  there  trembling,  she  caught  the  sound  of  a  voice 
praying  within,  a  voice  which  trembled  with  happiness 
and  gratitude  as  John  Russell  thanked  the  God  who  had 
given  to  him  Dora. 

"  I  can't ;  oh,  I  can't,"  Dora  sighed,  as,  faint  and 
sick,  she  leaned  against  the  wall,  while  that  prayer  pro 
ceeded. 

Then,  when  it  was  finished,  still  feeling  that  she  could 
not  talk  with  him  that  night,  she  went  up  to  her  room, 
and  in  the  garments  all  damp  and  stained  with  night  dew, 
and  the  slippers  wet  with  the  waters  of  the  lake,  she  sat 
ddwn  by  the  open  window  and  watched  the  light  across 
the  way,  until  she  heard  Jessie  coming  and  knew  that 
Robert  was  with  her.  They  were  talking,  too,  of  her, 
for  she  heard  her  name  coupled  with  Dr.  West's,  while 
Jessie  said,  "  It's  dreadful,  and  I  do  so  pity  Squire  Rus 
sell, — he  is  such  a  nice,  good  man." 

And  Jessie  did  pity  him  and  Dora,  too,  hardly  know 
ing  what  was  best,  or  what  she  ought  to  advise.  She 
had  been  present  when  Robert  returned  from  his  inter- 
view  with  Dora,  and  as  Richard  could  not  wait  till  she 
was  gone  she  came  to  know  the  whole,  expressing  great 
surprise,  and  wounding  Richard  cruell/  by  saying,  "  It 


DOWN  BY  THE  LAKE  SHORE.  223 

has  gone  so  far  that  I  do  not  believe  it  can  be  pro* 

vented." 

But  Robert  thought  differently,  and  repeated  Dora's 
promise  to  talk  with  Squire  Russell  that  night. 

"  Then  he  will  give  her  up,"  Jessie  exclaimed,  "  he  is 
BO  generous  and  so  wholly  unselfish.  Oh,  how  I  do  pity 
him !  "  and  in  the  heat  of  her  great  pity  Jessie  would  al 
most  have  been  Dora's  substitute,  if  by  that  means  she 
could  have  saved  the  Squire  from  pain. 

She  did  admire  and  like  him,  and  appreciated  his  kind, 
affable,  pleasant  ways,  all  the  more  because  they  were  so 
exactly  the  opposite  of  her  father's  quick,  brusque,  ner 
vous  manner.  The  door  of  the  library  was  open  now, 
and  she  saw  him  sitting  there  as  she  passed,  and  longed 
so  much  to  go  and  comfort  him  if  the  blow  had  fallen,  or 
prepare  him  for  it  if  .it  had  not.  I'll  see  Dora  first,  she 
thought,  and  she  hastened  up  to  Dora's  door,  but  it  was 
locked,  while  to  her  whispered  question,  "  Have  you  told 
him  yet  ?  "  Dora  answered,  "  No,  no,  not  yet ;  I  can't 
to-night.  Please  leave  me,  Jessie ;  I  want  to  be  alone." 

It  was  the  queerest  thing  she  ever  heard  of,  Jessie 
thought,  as  she  turned  away, — queerer  than  a  novel  ten 
times  over.  Then,  as  she  spied  Johnnie  in  the  parlor, 
the  little  meddlesome  lady  felt  a  great  desire  to  see  if  he 
jmspected  anything ;  but  Johnnie  did  not,  and  only 
talked  of  Europe  and  the  grand  things  he  should  see. 
Fbt  a  hint  or  insinuation,  however  broad,  would  he  take, 


224  DOWN  B7  THE  LAKE  SHORE. 

and  mentally  styling  him  stupid  and  dull,  Jessie  'left  him 
in  disgust,  and  walked  boldly  into  the  library,  apologiz 
ing  for  her  call  by  saying  she  had  been  to  see  Dr.  West^ 
and  thought  the  Squire  might  wish  to  hear  directly  from 
him.  The  Squire  was  very  glad  to  hear,  and  glad  also  to 
see  Jessie,  who  amused  and  interested  him. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  calling  myself,  with  Dora, 
but  have  not  seen  her  this  evening.  Where  is  she  ?  "  he 
said. 

"  Locked  in  her  room,"  Jessie  replied,  as  she  took  the 
chair  he  offered  her,  and  continued :  "  Dora  acts  queerly, 
but  I  suppose  that  is  the  way  I  shall  do  the  night  before 
I  am  married.  Wouldn't  I  feel  so  funny,  though  1  Do 
you  know  you  and  Dora  seem  to  me  just  like  a  novel,  in 
which  I  am  a  side  character;  but  to  keep  up  the  ro 
mance  some  tall,  handsome  knight  ought  at  the  last 
minute  to  appear  and  carry  her  off." 

"  And  so  make  a  tragedy  so  far  as  I  am  concerned," 
the  Squire  said,  playfully,  as  he  smoothed  the  little  black 
curly  head  moving  so  restlessly. 

"  Oh,  I  guess  you  would  not  die,"  Jessie  replied;  "  not 
if  Dora  loved  the  knight  the  best.  You  would  rather 
she  should  have  him,  and  some  time  you  would  find  an« 
other  Dora  who  loved  you  best  of  all." 

Jessie  was  growing  very  earnest,  very  sympathetic, 
very  sorry  for  the  unsuspecting  bridegroom,  and  as  hifl 
hand  still  continued  to  smooth  her  curls,  she  suddenly 


DOWN  BY  THE  LAKE  SHORE.  225 

caught  it  between,  her   own,  and   giving   it   a  squeeze 
darted  from  the  room,  leaving  the  Squire  to  wonder  at 
her  manner,  and  to  style  her  mentally  "  a  nice  little  girl*  * 
whom  it  would  not  be  hard  for  any  man  to  love." 


CHAPTER  XXIH. 

THE   BKIDAL  DAY. 

I  HE  morning  was  breaking  in  the  east,-  —a  bright, 
rosy  morning,  such  as  is  usual  in  early  Septem 
ber, — a  morning  when  the  birds  sang  as  gayly 
amoug  the  trees  as  in  the  suuinier-time,  and  when  the 
dew-drops  glittered  on  the  flowers  just  as  they  had  done 
in  the  mornings  of  the  past.  All  night  the  gas  had 
burned  dimly  in  the  sick-room  across  the  street,  and  all 
the  night  the  sick  man  had  prayed  that  he  might  be  pre 
pared  for  what  the  future  had  in  store,  whether  of  joy 
or  sorrow.  All  night  Jessie  and  Johnnie  had  slept  un 
easily,  dreaming,  one  of  the  Roman  Forum,  where  he 
repeated  the  speech  made  at  his  last  exhibition,  and  the 
other  that  she,  instead  of  Dora,  wore  the  bridal  wreath 
and  stood  at  John  Russell's  side,  and  found  it  not  so 
very  terrible  after  all.  All  night  Squire  Russell  had  lain 
awake,  with  a  strange,  half  sad,  half  delicious  feeling  of 
unrest,  which  drove  slumber  from  his  pillow,  but  brought 
no  shadow  of  the  storm  gathering  round  his  head.  All 
night,  too,  Dora, — but  over  the  scene  of  agony,  contrition, 
remorse,  terror,  hope,  and  despair  which  her  chambei 


THE  BRIDAL  DAT.  227 

witnessed,  we  draw  a  veil,  and  speak  only  of  the  re 
sults. 

With  the  dawn  the  household  was  astir,  for  the  elabo 
rate  breakfast  was  to  be  served  before  the  ceremony, 
which  was  to  take  place  at  half  past  seven.  In  the  chil 
dren's  room  there  was  first  the  opening  of  sleepy*  little 
eyes,  as  Clem  called  out,  "  Come,  come,  wake  up.  This 
is  your  father's  wedding-day."  Then  there  was  a  scam 
pering  across  the  floor,  a  patter  of  tiny  feet,  a  chorus  of 
birdlike  voices,  mingled  occasionally  with  wrathful  ex 
clamations  as  Ben's  antagonistic  propensities  clashed 
with  those  of  Burt,  who  declared  that  "  Aunt  Dora  was 
going  to  be  father's  mother,  too,  as  well  as  theirs.'* 
Then  there  were  louder  tones,  and  finally  a  fight,  which 
was  quelled  by  Jessie,  who  appeared  in  dressing-gown, 
with  her  brush  in  hand,  and  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  finish 
a  toilet  which  she  intuitively  felt  would  be  made  for 
naught. 

Across  the  yard  came  Squire  John  from  visiting  Mar 
garet's  grave,  where  he  had  left  a  tear  and  a  bouquet  ol 
flowers.  Up  the  walk,  from  the  front  gate,  came  Robert 
West,  a  look  of  determination  on  his  handsome  face, 
jvhich  boded  no  good  to  the  bridegroom-elect,  who,  guess 
ing  at  once  that  he  was  the  doctor's  brother,  greeted  him 
cordially  and  bade  him  sit  down  till  the  breakfast  waa 
Announced.  Up  the  same  gravel  walk  came  the  woman 
who  was  to  dress  the  bride,  and  just  as  Robert  West  wa* 


228  THE  BRIDAL  DAY. 

stammering  some  apology  for  being  there  unbidden,  sht 
asked  if  Miss  Freeman  had  come  do  mi. 

Nobody  had  seen  her  yet;  nobody  had  he&rd  hei 
either,  though  Jessie  had  been  three  times  to  her  dcor, 
while  Clem  had  been  'once,  but  neither  could  get  an 
answer. 

"  Would  she  be  apt  to  sleep  so  soundly  on  this  morn 
ing  ?  "  Squire  John  asked,  just  as  Jessie,  who  had  again 
tried  the  door,  came  running  to  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
her  brush  in  her  hands,  and  her  dressing-gown  flying 
back  as  she  breathlessly  explained  to  the  anxious  group 
in  the  hall  below  how  she  was  positive  she  had  heard  a 
moan  as  if  Dora  was  in  distress. 

"  Burst  the  door,"  the  Squire  ordered,  his  face  white 
as  ashes,  as  he  hurried  up  the  stairs,  followed  by  Robert 
West. 

Yes,  there  was  a  moan,  a  faint,  wailing  sound,  which 
met  the  ears  of  all,  and  half  crazy  with  fear  Squire 
John  pressed  heavily  against  the  bolted  door  until  it 
gave  way,  when  he  stood  modestly  back  while  Jessie, 
stooping  under  his  arm,  darted  into  the  room,  exclaim 
ing: 

"Dora,  O  Dora!  what's  the  matter?  What  makes 
her  so  sick?"  and  she  cast  an  appealing  glance  at  he* 
companions,  who  stood  appalled  at  the  change  a  fe\» 
hours  had  wrought  in  Dora,  the  bride  of  that  morning. 

la  her  soiled  garments,  damp  and  wet,  she  had  sat  01 


THE  BRIDAL  DAT.  229 

lain  the  entire  night,  but  the  burning  fever  had  dried 
them  and  stained  her  face  with  a  purplish  red,  while  her 
eyes,  bloc  dshot  and  heavy,  had  in  them  no  ray  of  intelli 
gence.  She  was  lying  now  upon  the  bed,  her  hands 
pressed  to  her  forehead,  as  if  the  pain  was  there,  while 
she  moaned  faintly,  and  occasionally  talked  of  the  light 
on  the  wall  which  had  troubled  her  so  much. 

"  It  would  not  go  out,"  she  said  to  Jessie,  who  gently 
lifted  up  the  aching  head  and  held  it  against  her  bosom. 
"  It  was  there  all  the  night,  and  I  know  it  burned  for 
him.  Does  he  know  how  sick  I  am  ?  " 

A  glance  of  intelligence  passed  between  Robert  West 
and  Jessie,  for  they  knew  that  the  light  from  Richard's 
room  had  shone  into  Dora's  through  the  darkness,  and 
this  it  was  which  troubled  her.  Squire  John  had  no 
such  suspicions,  and  when  she  asked,  "  Does  he  know  how 
sick  I  am  ?  "  he  bent  over  her  tenderly,  and  smoothing 
her  brown  hair,  said,  "  Poor  child,  poor  darling,  I  do 
know,  and  I  am  so  sorry.  Is  the  pain  very  hard  ?  " 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  Dora  started,  while  there 
came  into  her  face  a  rational  expression,  and  as  he  con 
tinued  to  caress  her,  her  lip  quivered,  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  and  she  said,  pleadingly,  as  a  child  would  beg  for 
giveness  of  an  injured  parent : 

"Dear  John,  don't  be  angry,  I  nould  not  help  it.  I 
tried  to  come  to  you  last  night  when  everybody  wai 
asleep  and  the  clock  was  striking  twelve.  I  tried  to 


23C  TEE  3RIDAL  DAT. 

come,  but  i  could  not  find  the  way  for  the  light  on  tht 
wall.  I  cai.'t,  I  can't.  The  trunks  are  all  packed  too, 
and  the  people  are  coming.  Tell  them  I  can't." 

"  Poor  little  girl,  never  mind.  I  know  you  can't,  and 
it  don't  make  one  bit  of  difference,  for  I  can  wait,  and 
I  will  tell  the  folks  how  sick  my  Dora  is,"  John  said 
kissing  her  softly.  Then  in  an  aside  to  Jessie,  he  added, 
"  She  thinks  I'll  be  disappointed  because  the  wedding  is 
deferred,  and  it  troubles  her.  There's  the  door-bell  now. 
I  must  go  down  to  explain,"  and  he  hurried  away  to 
meet  the  guests,  who  were  arriving  rapidly,  and  who, 
as  they  turned  their  steps  homeward,  seemed  more  dis 
appointed  than  the  bridegroom  himself. 

Blessed  Squire  John !  He  was  wholly  unselfish,  and  as 
in  his  handsome  wedding-suit  he  stood  bowing  out  his  de 
parting  guests,  he  was  not  thinking  of  himself,  but  of 
Dora  and  how  she  might  be  served. 

"  Margaret  believed  fully  in  homoeopathy,"  he  said  to 
the  last  lady,  who  asked  what  doctor  he  would  call ;  "  but 
Dr.  West  is  sick,  and  what  can  I  do  ?  " 

"  He  might  prescribe,"  returned  the  lady,  who  was  also 
one  of  Dr.  "West's  adherents.  "  You  can  tell  him  her 
symptoms,  and  he  can  order  medicine." 

"  Thank  you ;  I  never  thought  of  that.  I'll  go  at  once," 
John  said;  and  bareheaded  as  he  was,  he  crossed  the 
•fcreet,  and  was  soon  knocking  at  Mrs.  Markham's  door. 

'*  The  doctor's  worse,"  she  said,  in  reply  to  his  inquiry. 


THE  BRIDAL  DAT.  231 

*'  He  seems  terribly  excited,  and  acts  as  if  he  was  pos 
sessed." 

"  But  I  must  see  aim,"  Squire  John  continued.  "  Misfl 
Freeman  is  very  sick,  and  he  must  prescribe." 

"  Ain't  there  no  wedding  after  all  ?  Wall,  if  that  don't 
beat  me !  "  was  Mrs.  Markham's  response,  as  she  carried 
to  Dr.  West  the  message  which  roused  him  from  the 
hopeless,  despairing  mood  into  which  he  had  fallen. 

He  had  insisted  upon  sitting  up  by  the  window,  where 
he  could  watch  the  proceedings  across  the  street,  and  as 
.Robert  did  not  return,  while  one  after  another  the  invited 
guests  went  up  the  walk  into  the  house,  he  gave  up  all  as 
lost,  and  sick  with  the  crushing  belief,  went  back  to  his 
bed,  whispering  sadly : 

"  Dora  is  not  for  me.     But  God  knows  best !  " 

He  did  not  see  the  bridegroom  coming  to  his  door,  but 
when  the  message  was  delivered  it  diffused  new  life  at 
once.  \ 

"  Yes,  show  him  up ;  I  must  talk  with  him,"  he  said,  and 
a  moment  after  Squire  John  stood  before  his  rival,  his  hon 
est  face  full  of  anxiety,  and  almost  bedewed  with  tears  as 
he  stated  all  he  knew  of  Dora's  case.  "  If  I  could  see  her 
I  could  do  so  much  better,"  Richard  said ;  **  but  that  is 
impossible  to-day,  so  I  must  send,"  and  with  hands  which 
shook  as  they  had  never  shaken  before,  he  gave  out  the 
medicine  which  he  hoped  might  save  Dora's  life. 

"  If  you  w  3re  able  to  go,"  the  Squire  said,  as  he  stood 


232  TEE  BRIDAL  DAT. 

in  the  dcorway,  "I  would  carry  you  myself;  but  pec 
haps  it  is  not  prudent."    . 

He  looked  anxiously  at  the  doctor,  who  replied : 

"  If  she  gets  no  better,  I'll  come." 

And  then  as  the  door  closed  upon  the  Squire,  he  gave  a 
great  pitying  groan  as  he  thought  how  trustful  and  uu 
suspicious  he  was. 

Holding  fast  to  the  medicine,  and  repeating  the  direc 
tion,  Squire  Russell  hastened  back  to  the  house,  finding 
that  Dora  had  been  divested  of  her  soiled  garments,  and 
placed  in  bed,  where  she  already  seemed  more  comfortable, 
though  she  kept  talking  incessantly  of  the  light  on  the 
wall  which  would  not  let  her  sleep. 

"  It's  perfectly  dreadful,  isn't  it  ?  "  Jessie  said  to  Rob 
ert,  who,  ere  going  home,  stepped  to  the  door  of  Dora's 
room.  "  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I  wish  Bell 
was  here." 

Dora  heard  the  name,  and  said  : 

"  Yes,  Bell ;  she  knows,  she  understands, — she  said  I 
ought  not  to  do  it.  Send  for  Bell." 

Accordingly  Robert  was  furnished  with  the  necessary 
directions,  and  left  the  house  for  the  telegraph  office,  just 
as  the  Squire  entered. 

Johnnie  was  nearly  frantic.  At  first  he  had  seemed 
to  consider  that  his  trip  to  Europe  was  prevented,  and, 
boy-like,  cnly  was  greatly  disappointed;  but  when  he  waa 
admit  L/ed  into  the  room  and  saw  Dora's  burning  cheeks  and 


TEE  BRIDAL  DAT.  233 

bright,  rolling  eyes,  he  forgot  everything  in  his  great  dis 
tress  for  her. 

"  Auntie  nrist  not  die!  Oh,  ste  must  not  die!  "  h* 
Bobbed,  feeling  a  keener  paug  than  any  he  had  known 
when  they  brought  home  his  dead  mother.  Intuitively 
he  seemed  to  feel  that  his  father's  grief  was  greater  than 
his  own,  and  keeping  close  to  his  side  he  held  his 
nand,  looking  up  into  his  face,  and  whispering  occasion 
ally: 

"  Poor  father,  I  hope  she  won't  die  !  " 

The  father  hoped  so  too,  but  as  the  hours  wore  on  and 
the  fever  increased,  those  who  saw  her,  shook  their  heads 
doubtingly,  saying  with  one  accord : 

"  She  must  have  help  soon,  or  it  will  come  too 
late." 

"  Help  from  where  ?  Tell  me.  Whom  shall  I  get  ? 
Where  shall  I  go  ?  "  John  asked,  and  the  answer  was 
always  the  same.  "  if  Dr.  West  could  come,  but  I  sup 
pose  he  can't ! " 

"  He  can  I  he  shall !  I "  Johnnie  exclaimed,  as  the  house 
seemed  filled  with  Dora's  delirious  ravings.  "  Father  and 
that  Mr.  West  can  bring  him  in  a  chair !  He  shall !  " 
and  Johnnie  rushed  across  the  street,  nearly  upsetting  Mrs. 
West  in  his  headlong  haste,  and  bursting  upon  Richard 
with  the  exclamation,  "She'll  die !  she  is  dying,  and  you 
shall  go !  You  must, — you  will !  We'll  take  you  in  this 
big  chair !  "  and  Johnnia  wound  his  arm  around  the  loo 


234  THE  13KIDAL  DAT. 

tor's  neck,  while  he  begged  of  him  to  go  and  rave  Aunt 
Dora. 

At  first  the  doctor  hesitated,  but  when  his  brother  alao 
joined  in  the  bo^'s  request,  he  said,  "I'll  go." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE   SHADOWS   OF   DEATH. 

IT  was  a  novel  sight  to  see  the  little  procession 
which  half  an  hour  later  left  Mrs.  Markham'a 
house  and  moved  across  the  street.  Wrapped 
in.  a  blanket  and  reclining  in  the  huge  arm-chair  which 
Squire  John,  his  coachman,  and  Robert  West  were  carry 
ing  was  Dr.  West,  while  behind  him  walked  his  mother, 
with  Johnnie  and  Jim  and  Burt  and  Ben  bringing  up  the 
rear, 

"  I  think  I  had  better  go  in  alone.  Too  many  may 
disturb  her,"  Richard  suggested,  as,  supported  by  his 
brother  and  the  Squire,  he  reached  the  upper  hall  and 
turned  towards  Dora's  chamber. 

All  saw  the  propriety  of  this,  and  so  only  Jessie  was 
present  when  Richard  first  sat  down  by  Dora's  side,  and 
taking  her  hot  hand  pressed  it  between  his  own,  calling 
her  by  name  and  asking  if  she  knew  him. 

"  Yes,  Richard,  and  you  have  come  to  save  me ;  I  am  so 
glad,  and  the  night  was  so  long,  with  the  light  on  the 
wall,"  Dora  replied,  and  over  her  cheeks  the  tears  fell  re 
freshingly. 

t(  You  have  done  her  good  already,"  Jessie  whispered 


236  THE  SHADOWS  OF  DEATH. 

to  the  doctor,  who,  repressing  his  intense  desire  to  hug 
the  sick  girl  to  his  bosom,  proceeded  carefully  to  examine 
every  symptom  and  then  to  prescribe. 

She  was  very  sick,  he  said,  and  the  utmost  quiet  wai 
necessary  ;  only  a  few  must  be  allowed  to  see  her,  and  no 
one  should  be  admitted  whose  presence  disturbed  her  in 
the  least.  This  was  virtually  keeping  Squire  Russell 
away,  for  his  presence  did  disturb  her,  as  had  been  appar 
ent  all  the  day,  for  she  grew  restless  and  talkative  and 
feverish  the  moment  he  appeared.  It  smote  the  doctor 
cruelly  to  see  how  meekly  he  received  the  order. 

"  Save  her,  doctor,"  he  said,  "  save  my  Dora  and  I  will 
not  mind  giving  you  all  I'm  worth." 

But  the  power  to  save  was  not  vested  in  Dr.  West. 
He  could  only  use  the  means,  and  then  with  agony  of 
soul  pray  that  they  might  be  blessed,  that  Dora  might 
live  even  though  she  should  never  be  his.  It  was  un 
necessary  for  him  to  return  to  Mrs.  Markham's,  and 
yielding  to  what  seemed  best  for  all,  he  remained  at 
Squire  Russell's  during  the  dreadful  days  of  suspense 
when  Dora's  life  hung  on  a  thread,  when  Bell  and  Mat- 
tie,  both  of  whom  came  in  answer  to  Robert's  telegram, 
bent  over  her  pillow,  always  turning  away  with  the  feel 
ing  that  she  must  die,  when  Jessie,  yielding  her  place  as 
nurse  to  more  experienced  hands,  took  the  children  to 
the  farthest  part  of  the  building,  where  she  kept  them 
quiet,  stifling  her  tears  while  she  sang  to  them  childiafc 


THE  SHADOWS  OF  DEATH.  237 

songs,  or  told  them  fairy  stories  ;  and  when  Squire  Kua- 
sell,  banished  from  the  sick  room,  sat  in  the  hall  all  the 
day  long  watching  Dora's  door  with  a  wistful,  beseeching 
look,  which  touched  the  hearts  of  those  who  saw  it,  and 
who  knew  of  the  blow  in  store  for  him  even  if  Dora  lived. 
It  was  no  secret  now,  to  five  at  least,  that  Dora  could 
never  be  Squire  Russell's  wife.  Mrs.  West,  Bell,  Mat- 
tie,  Jessie,  and  Robert  all  knew  it,  and  while  four  ap 
proved  most  heartily,  <Tessie  in  her  great  pity  hardly 
knew  what  she  should  advise.  She  was  so  sorry  for  him 
sitting  so  patiently  by  the  hall  window,  and  she  wanted 
BO  much  to  comfort  him.  Sometimes,  as  she  passed  near 
him,  she  did  stop,  and  smoothing  his  hair,  tell  him  how 
sorry  she  was,  while  beneath  the  touch  of  those  snowy 
fingers,  his  heart  throbbed  with  a  feeling  which  prompted 
him  to  think  much  of  Jessie,  even  while  he  kept  that 
tireless  watch  near  Dora. 

It  was  strange  how  the  doctor  bore  up,  appearing  bet 
ter  than  when  he  first  came  to  Dora.  It  was  excitement, 
he  knew,  and  he  was  glad  of  the  artificial  strength  which 
kept  him  at  her  side,  noting  every  change  with  minute 
ness  which  went  far  toward  effecting  the  cure  for  which 
he  prayed. 

Two  weeks  had  passed  away,  and  then  one  night,  just 
as  the  autumn  twilight  was  stealing  into  the  room,  Dora 
woke  fram  a  long,  heavy  sleep,  which  Richard  had 
watched  breathlessly,  for  on  its  issue  hung  her  life  or 


238  THE  SHADOWS  OF  DEATH. 

death.  It  was  over  now,  and  the  hand  Richard  held  wai 
wet  with  perspiration.  Dora  was  saved,  and  burying  hia 
head  upon  her  pillow,  the  doctor  said  aloud : 

"  I  thank  thee,  O  my  Father,  for  giving  me  back  my 
darling." 

Richard  was  alone,  for  Bell  and  Mattie  had  both  left 
the  room  to  take  their  supper,  and  there  was  no  one 
present  to  see  the  look  of  unutterable  joy  which  crept  in 
to  his  face,  when,  in  response  to  his  thanksgiving,  a  faint 
voice  said : 

"  Kiss  me  once,  Richard,  for  the  sake  of  what  might 
have  been,  then  let  me  die, — here,  just  as  I  am,  alone 
with  you." 

He  kissed  her  more  than  once,  more  than  twice,  while 
he  said  to  her : 

"You  will  not  die;  the  crisis  is  past;  my  darling 
will  live." 

Neither  thought  of  Squire  Russell  then,  so  full,  so  per 
fect  was  that  moment  of  bliss  in  which  each  acknowledged 
the  deep  love  filling  their  hearts  with  joy.  Dora  was  the 
first  to  remember,  and  with  a  moan  she  turned  her  face 
to  the  wall  while  the  doctor  still  held  and  caressed  the 
little  wasted  hand  which  did  not  withdraw  itself  from  hia 
grasp.  There  was  joy  in  the  household  that  night,  for 
the  glad  news  that  Dora  was  better  spread  rapidly,  while 
•miles  and  tears  of  happiness  took  the  place  of  sorrow. 
Squire  Russell  was  gone ;  business  which  required  attei* 


THE  SHADOWS  OF  DEATH.  239 

tier  had  taken  him  away  for  several  hours,  and  when  he 
returned  it  was  too  late  to  visit  the  sick-rooin;  but  he 
heai  d  from  Johnnie  that  Dora  would  live,  and  from  his 
room  tliere  went  up  a  crayer  of  thanksgiving  to  Heaven, 
who  had  not  taken  away  ono  so  dear  as  Dora. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

BREAKING   THE   ENGAGEMENT. 

|OOR  Squire  Russell,"  Jessie  kept  repeating  to 
herself,  as  she  saw  him  next  morning  going  up 
to  Dora,  who  would  far  rather  not  have  seen 
him  until  some  one  had  told  him  what  she  knew  now 
must  be. 

But  there  was  no  longer  a  reason  why  he  should  not  be 
admitted  to  her  presence,  and  so  he  came,  his  kind  face 
bathed  in  tears,  and  glowing  all  over  with  delight  as  he 
stooped  to  kiss  "  his  lily,"  as  he  called  her,  asking  how 
she  felt,  and  whispering  to  her  of  his  joy  that  she  was 
better. 

"  I  knew  the  doctor  would  help  you,"  he  said,  rubbing 
his  hands  complacently.  "  You  would  have  died  but  for 
him.  We  will  always  like  Dr.  West,  Dora,  for  he  saved 
your  life." 

"  I  guess  1  would  not  talk  any  more  now, — it  tires  her," 
Jessie  said,  in  a  perfect  tremor  of  distress ;  and  taking  hia 
arm,  she  lead  him  away ;  then,  closing  the  door  upon  him, 
•he  went  back  to  Dora,  who  was  weeping  silently. 

"  It  seems  dreadful  to  deceive  him  any  longer,"  Jessie 


BREAKING   THE  ENGAGEMENT.  241 

said,  and  as  Dr.  West  just  then  came  in  she  appealed  to 
him  to  know  if  it  were  not  a  shame  for  that  nice  man  to  be 
kept  so  in  the  dark.  "  If  you  and  Dora  love  each  other, 
W  T  suppose  you  do,  why,  you'll  have  each  other  of  course: 
and  Squire  Russell  must  console  himself  as  best  he  can. 
For  my  part,  I  pity  him,"  and  Jessie  flounced  out  of  the 
room,  leaving  Dr.  West  alone  with  Dora. 

For  a  long  time  they  talked,  Dora  weeping  softly 
while  the  doctor  soothed  and  comforted,  and  told  her  of 
the  love  cherished  so  many  years  for  the  little  brown- 
eyed  girl,  who  now  confessed  how  dear  he  was  to  her, 
but  cried  mournfully  when  she  spoke  of  Squire  Russell. 
It  was  cruel  when  he  trusted  and  loved  her  so  much. 
Perhaps,  too,  it  was  wrong,  she  said.  It  might  be  her 
imperative  duty  to  take  charge  of  those  children,  and 
then  ^she  startled  the  doctor  by  saying : 

"  You  know  how  much  I  love  you.  I  am  not  ashamed 
to  confess  it,  but  I  am  most  afraid  that  when  the  time 
comes  to  talk  with  John,  I  shall  tell  him  that  I  will 
tuarry  him." 

"  Not  by  a  jug  full !  I'll  tend  to  that  myself.  I 
know  now  what  has  been  the  matter ! "  was  almost 
screamed  in  the  ears  of  Dr.  West  and  Dora,  as  Johnnie 
rushed  into  the  room. 

He  had  started  to  come  before,  he  said,  but  had  been 
awrested  at  the  door  by  something  Dora  was  saying  to 
the  4octor. 
11 


242  BREAKING  THE  ENGAGEMENT. 

"  I  know  it's  paltry  mean  to  listen,"  he  continued, 
"  but  I  could  not  help  it,  and  so  I  stood  stiller  than  * 
mouse,  and  heard  all  you  had  to  say.  That's  why  Aunt 
Dora  has  looked  so  white  and  cried  so  much,  and  didn't 
want  father  to  kiss  her.  I  understand.  She  didn't  like 
him,  but  she's  pesky  willing  to  have  you  slobber  over 
her  as  much  as  you  want  to,"  and  the  boy  turned  fiercely 
toward  the  doctor.  "  I  counted,  and  while  I  stood  there 
you  kissed  her  fourteen  times !  It  was  smack,  smack, 
till  I  was  fairly  sick,  and  sort  of  mad  with  all  the  rest, 
I  know  auntie  always  has  done  right,  and  so  I  s'pose  she 
is  right  now,  but  somehow  I  can't  help  feeling  as  if  the 
governor  was  abused,  and  me  too !  How,  I'd  like  to 
know,  am  I  ever  going  to  Europe  if  you  don't  have 
father  ?  O  Auntie,  think  again  before  you  quit  en 
tirely  I "  and  overmastered  with  tears,  Johnnie  buried 
his  face  in  the  bed-clothes,  begging  of  Dora  "  to  think 
again,  and  not  give  poor  father  the  mitten !  " 

"  You  are  making  her  worse  !  You  had  better  go 
out !  "  the  doctor  said  kindly,  laying  a  hand  on  Johnnie's 
shoulder ;  but  the  boy  shook  it  off,  savagely  exclaiming : 

"  You  let  me  be,  old  Dr.  West.  I  shall  stay  if  I  have 
ft  mind  to !  "  But  when  Dora  said : 

"  Johnnie,  Johnnie,  please  don't,"  he  melted  at  once, 
and  sobbed  aloud. 

"  I  was  mad,  Auntie ;  and  I  guess  I'm  mad  yet,  but  I 
4o  love  you.  O  Auntie,  poor  father!  I'm  going  right 


BREAKING   THE  ENGAGEMENT.  243 

off  to  tell  him.  He  shan't  be  fooled  any  longer  1  "  and 
the  excited  child  darted  from  the  room  ere  Dora  had 
time  to  stop  him. 

Rushing  down  the  stairs  and  entering  the  library,  ha 
called  loudly  for  his  father,  but  he  was  not  there.  He 
had  gone  into  the  village,  Jessie  said,  asking  if  it  was 
anything  in  particular  which  he  wanted.  "  Yes,  of 
course.  I  want  to  tell  him  how  it's  all  day  with  hirn 
and  Auntie.  She  don't  like  him,  and  she  does  like 
Dr  West.  Poor  father!  was  there  ever  anything  so 
mean?" 

Here  at  last  was  one  who  in  part  expressed  her  own 
sentiments,  and  the  impulsive  Jessie  replied : 

'*  It  is  mean,  I  think,  and  I  am  so  sorry  for  your 
father.  Of  course  Dora  intends  to  do  right,  and  likes 
the  doctor  best,  because  he  is  not  so  old  as  your  father ; 
but  young  as  I  am,  I  should  not  think  it  so  awful  to 
marry  a  man  of  forty.  Why,  I  think  it  would  be  rather 
jolly,  for  I  could  do  just  as  I  pleased  with  him.  Yes,  ] 
blame  Dora  some — " 

"  I  won't  have  Aunt  Dora  blamc/3,"  Johnnie  roared,  a 
reaction  taking  place  the  moment  any  one  presumed  to 
aensure  her.  "  No,  I  won't  hara  her  blamed,  so  you 
just  hush  up.  If  she  don't  want  father  she  shan't  hava 
him,  and  I'll  lick  the  first  one  who  says  she  shall." 

Here  Johnnie  broke  down  entirely,  and  with  a  howl« 
Ing  cry  fled  away  into  the  garden,  leaving  Jessie  per 


244  BREAKING  TEE  ENGAGEMENT, 

fectly  amazed  as  she  thought  "  how  very  unsatisfactory 
it  was  to  meddle  with  a  love-affair." 

Meanwhile  Johnnie  had  seated  himself  beneath  a  tree 
ii.  a  sunny,  quiet  spot,  where  he  was  crying  bitterly,  and 
feeling  almost  as  much  grieved  as  when  his  mother  died. 
Indeed,  he  fancied  that  he  felt  worse,  for  then  there  was 
hope  in  the  future,  and  now  there  was  none.  Hearing 
the  sound  of  the  gate,  and  thinking  his  father  had  re 
turned,  he  rose  at  last,  and  drying  his  eyes,  repaired  to 
the  house,  finding  his  conjecture  true,  for  Squire  Russell 
bad  come,  and  was  reading  his  paper  in  the  library. 
With  his  face  all  flushed  with  excitement,  and  his  eyes 
red  with  -weeping,  Johnnie  went  to  him  at  once,  and 
bolting  the  door,  began  impetuously,  "  I  would  not  mind 
It  a  bit,  father.  I'd  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip,  just  as  if  I 
did  not  care." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  the  Squire  asked,  in  surprise, 
and  Johnnie  continued :  "  I  mean  that  you  and  Aunt 
Dora  have  played  out,  and  you  may  as  well  hang  up 
your  fiddle,  for  she  don't  want  you,  and  she  does  want 
Dr.  West,  and  that's  why  she  has  grown  poor  as  a  shark 
and  white  as  chalk.  I  just  found  it  out,  stan  ling  by  the 
door  and  hearing  the  greatest  lot  of  stuff, — how  he  asked 
her  to  marry  him  once,  and  she  got  into  a  tantrum  and 
wouldn't  say  yes,  though  she  wanted  to  all  the  time, 
What  makes  girls  act  so,  I  wonder  ?  " 

Squire  Russell  was  too  deeply  interested  to  offer  any 


BllEA&IXQ   TUB  ENGAGEMENT.  246 

explanation  with  regard  to  girls'  actions,  and  Johnnia 
went  on : 

"  Then  he  went  off  to  California,  and  didn't  write,  ai 
she  hoped  he  would,  and  you  and  I  asked  her  to  have 
you,  and  she  did  not  want  to,  but  thought  it  was  her 
duty,  and  wrote  to  ask  the  doctor,  and  he  didn't  get  the 
letter  for  weeks  and  weeks,  and  when  he  did  he  waa 
most  distracted,  and  cut  stick  for  home  ;  and  Aunt  Dora 
didn't  know  it,  and  went  off  to  the  Lake,  and  sat  with 
both  feet  in  the  water,  and  Mr.  Robert  West  found  her 
there  and  told  her,  and  got  her  home,  and  she  most  had 
a  fit,  and,  O  thunder !  what  a  muss  they  have  kicked  up  I  " 

Hero  Johnnie  stopped  for  breath,  while  his  father 
grasped  the  table  with  both  hands,  as  if  he  thus  would 
steady  himself,  while  he  said  slowly,  with  long  breaths 
between  the  words,  "  How — was  it-r-my  son  ?  Tell  me 
— again.  I — I  do  not — think — I  understand." 

Briefly  then  Johnnie  recapitulated,  telling  how  he  hap 
pened  to  find  it  out,  and  adding,  "  Such  kissing  I  never 
heard !  Fourteen  smashers,  for  I  counted ;  and  don't 
you  know,  father,  how,  if  you  even  touched  her  hand  or 
her  hair,  she  would  wiggle  and  squirm  as  if  it  hurt  her  ? 
Well,  I  peeked  through  the  crack  of  the  door,  and  instead 
of  wigglin'  she  snugged  up  to  him  as  if  she  liked  it,  and 
I  know  she  did,  for  her  eyes  fairly  shone,  they  were  so 
bright,  when  she  looked  at  him.  But,  father,  she  talked 
real  good  about  you,  and  said  that  if  you  insisted  she 


246  BREAKING  THE  ENGAGEMENT. 

should  marry  you  just  the  same ;  but  you  won't  fathw, 
will  you?" 

"  No,  my  son,  no.     O  Dora  !  " 

The  words  were  a  groan,  while  the  Squire  laid  his  faoe 
apon  the  table.  Instantly  Johnnie  was  at  his  side  com 
forting  him  as  well  as  he  was  able,  and  trying  manfully 
to  keep  down  his  own  choking  sorrow. 

"  Never  mind,  father,  never  mind  ;  we  will  get  along, 
you  and  L  And  I'll  tell  you  now  what  folks  say,  and 
that  is,  that  no  chap  has  a  right  to  marry  his  wife's  sister, 
which  I  guess  is  so.  Don't  cry,  father,  don't.  Somebody 
will  have  you,  if  Aunt  Dora  won't.  There, — there,"  and 
Johnnie  tried  in  vain  to  hush  the  grief  becoming  rathe* 
demonstrative  as  the  Squire  began  to  realize  what  he  had 
lost. 

Noisy  grief  is  never  so  deep  as  the  calm,  quiet  sorrow 
which  can  find  no  outlet  for  its  tears,  and  so  Squire  Rus 
sell  was  the  more  sure  to  outlive  this  bitter  trial ;  but 
that  did  not  help  him  now,  or  make  the  future  seem  one 
whit  less  desolate.  It  was  an  hour  before  Johnnie  left 
him,  and  went  into  the  hall,  where  he  encountered  Jessie, 
to  whom  he  said,  "  I've  told  him  and  he'll  do  the  hand 
some  thing,  but  it  almost  kills  him.  Maybe  you,  being 
a  girl,  can  talk  to  him  better  than  I,"  and  Johnnie  went 
on  up  to  Dora's  chamber,  while  Jessie,  after  hesitating  a 
moment,  glided  quietly  into  the  library,  where  Squire 
still  sat  with  his  head  upon  the  table. 


BREAKING  THE  ENGAGEMENT.  247 

Jessie  was  a  nice  little  comforter,  and  so  the  Squira 
found  her  as  she  stood  over  him,  just  as  she  did  when 
Margaret  died,  smoothing  his  hair,  her  favorite  method 
of  expressing  sympathy,  and  saying  to  him  so  softly,  "  I 
pity  you,  and  I  think  you  so  good  to  give  her  up.w 

He  could  talk  to  Jessie  ;  and  bidding  her  to  sit  down,  he 
asked  what  she  knew  of  Dora's  love-affair  with  the  doctor, 
thereby  learning  some  things  which  Johnnie  had  not  told 
him. 

"  It  is  well,"  he  said  at  last ;  "  I  see  that  Dora  is  not 
for  me ;  I  give  her  to  Dr.  West ;  and,  Miss  Verner, — 
Jessie, — I  thank,  you  for  your  sympathy  with  both  of  us. 
I  am  glad  you  are  here." 

Jessie  was  glad,  too,  for  if  there  was  anything  she  es 
pecially  enjoyed,  it  was  the  whirl  and  the  excitement 
going  on  around  her.     Bowing,  she  too  quitted  the  library, 
and  went  up  to  corroborate  what  Johnnie  had  already 
told  to  Dora. 

After  that  Squire  Russell  sat  no  more  in  the  upper 
hall  watching  Dora's  door,  but  stayed  downstairs  with  his 
little  children,  to  whom  he  attached  himself  continually, 
as  if  he  felt  that  he  must  be  to  them  father  and  mother 
both.  Now  that  the  crisis  was  past,  the  doctor  thought 
it  advisable  to  go  back  to  Mrs.  Markham's,  his  boarding- 
place,  but  he  met  Squire  Russell  first,  and  heard  from  his 
own  lips  a  confirmation  of  what  Johnnie  had  said.  There 
was  110  malice  in  John  Russell's  nature,  and  he  treated 


248  BREAKING  THE  ENGAGEMENT. 

the  doctor  as  cordially  and  kindly  as  if  he  had  not  been 
his  rival. 

"  God  bless  you  both,"  he  said ;  "  I  blame  no  one,*** 
harbor  no  ill-feeling  towards  any  one.  If  Dora  had  told 
me  frankly  at  first  it  might  have  saved  some  pain,  some 
mortification,  but  I  do  not  lay  it  up  against  her.  She 
meant  for  the  best.  It  is  natural  she  should  love  you 
more  than  me.  God  bless  her ;  and  doctor,  if  you  like, 
marry  her  at  once,  but  don't  take  her  away  from  here 
yet ;  wait  a  little  till  I  am  more  settled^ — for  the  chil 
dren's  sake,  you  know." 

Dr.  West  could  not  understand  the  feeling  which 
prompted  Squire  Russell  to  want  Dora  to  stay  there,  but 
he  recognized  the  great  unselfishness  of  the  man  whose 
sunshine  he  had  darkened,  arid  with  a  trembling  lip  ho, 
too,  said,  "  God  bless  you,"  as  he  grasped  the  hand  most 
cordially  offered,  and  then  hurried  away.  It  was  a  week 
before  the  Squire  could  command  sufficient  courage  to 
have  an  interview  with  Dora,  as  she  had  repeatedly  asked 
that  he  might  do.  With  a  faltering  step  he  approached 
her  door,  hesitating  upon  the  threshold,  until  Jessie,  com 
ing  suddenly  upon  him,  said  to  him,  cheerily,  "  It  will 
soon  be  over,  never  mind  it ;  go  in." 

So  he  wenir  in,  and  stayed  a  long,  long  timo,  but  as 
they  were  alone,  no  one  ever  knew  all  that  had  j  issed  be 
tween  them.  The  Squire  was  very  white  wheii  he  cam* 
•ut,  bx.fc  his  face  shone  with  a  look  .  of  one  who  felt  thai 


BllEAKINQ   THE  ENQ-AdEMEIfT.  249 

he  had  done  right,  and  after  that  the  expression  did  no* 
change  except  that  it  gradually  deepened  into  ono  of  con 
tent  and  even  cheerfulness,  as  the  days  went  by,  and 
people  not  only  came  to  know  that  the  wedding  between 
nimself  and  Dora  would  never  be,  but  also  to  approve  the 
arrangement,  and  to  treat  him  as  a  hero  who  had  achieved 
a  famous  victory.  As  for  Dora,  Jessie  and  Eeil  found 
her  after  the  interview  weeping  bitterly  over  what  the 
called  her  own  wicked  selfishness  and  John's  great  gener 
ous  goodness  in  giving  her  up  so  kindly,  and  making  her 
feel  while  he  was  talking  to  her  that  it  really  was  no  mat 
ter  about  him.  He  was  not  injured  so  very  much,  al 
though  he  had  loved  her  dearly.  He  still  had  his  chil 
dren,  and  with  them  he  should  be  happy. 

"  Oh,  he  is  the  best  man  !  "  Dora  said  ;  "  the  very  best 
man  that  ever  lived,  and  I  wish  he  might  find  some  suit 
able  wife,  whom  he  could  love  better  than  he  did  me,  and" 
who  would  make  him  happy." 

"  So  do  I !  I  guess  I  do  !  "  retorted  Jessie,  industri 
ously  cutting  a  sheet  of  note-paper  in  little  slips  and  scat 
tering  them  on  the  floor.  "  I've  thought  of  everybody 
that  would  be  at  all  suitable,  for  I  suppose  he  must  be 
married  on  account  of  the  children ;  but  there  is  nobody 
good  enough  except — "  and  Jessie  held  the  scissors  and 
paper  still  a  moment,  while  she  added,  "  except  BelL  I 
think  she  would  answer  nicely.  She  is  twenty-nine, — al« 

moat  that  awful  thirty, — which  no  unmarried  woman  ovei 
11 


250  BREAKING  THE  ENGAGEMENT. 

reaches,  they  say ;  and  I'd  like  to  be  aunt  to  six  children 
right  well,  only  I  belie*  e  I  should  thrash  Jim  and  Letitiaj 
— who,  by  the  way,  is  not  very  bright  Did  you  ever 
discover  it,  Dora  ?  " 

Dora  had  sometimes  thought  Letitia  a  little  dull,  she 
said,  and  then  she  turned  to  Bell  to  see  how  she  fancied 
the  idea  of  being  step-mother  to  all  those  dreadful  chil 
dren  ;  but  Bell  did  not  fancy  it  at  all,  as  was  plainly  in 
dicated  by  the  haughty  toss  of  her  head  as  she  replied 
that: 

"  Thirty  had  no  terrors  for  her,  but  was  infinitely  pref 
erable  to  a  widower  with  six  children." 

Jessie  whistled,  while  Dora  smiled  softly  as  she  caughi 
the  sound  of  a  well-known  step  upon  the  stairs,  and  knew 
her  physician  was  coming. 

Bell  and  Jessie  always  left  her  alone  with  him,  and 
when  they  were  gone  he  kissed  her  pale  cheek,  which 
flushed  with  happiness,  while  her  sunny  eyes  looked 
volumes  of  love  into  the  eyes  meeting  them  so  fondly. 

"  My  daring  has  been  crying,"  the  doctor  said. 
*  Will  she  tell  me  why  ?  " 

And  then  came  the  story  of  her  interview  with  John, 
who  had  proved  himself  so  noble  and  good. 

"  Yes,  I  know  ;  he  came  from  you  to  me  !  "  the  doptor 
replied,  and  into  Dora's  eyes  there  crept  a  bashful, 
frightened  look,  as  she  wondered  if  John  had  said  t* 
Richard  what  he  did  to  her.  • 


BREAKING  THE  ENGAGEMENT.  251 

He  had  in  part,  viz.,  that  ho  wished  matters  to  proceed 
just  as  if  he  had  never  thought  of  marrying  Dora ;  that  af 
•oon  as  sl_e  was  able  he  would  like  to  see  her  the  doctor '• 
irife,  and  then  if  there  were  no  objections  on  the  part  ol 
either,  he  would  like  to  have  her  remain  at  Beechwood 
awhile,  at  least  until  he  could  make  some  other  arrange 
ment  for  his  children. 

"  I  told  him  you  might,"  Richard,  said,  as  he  im 
prisoned  the  hand  which  was  raised  to  remonstrate.  "  I 
said  I  knew  you  would  be  willing  to  stay,  and  that  I 
should  like  my  new  boarding-place  very  much ;  and  now 
nothing  remains  but  for  you  to  get  well  as  fast  as  possi 
ble,  for  the  moment  the  doctor  pronounces  you  convales 
cent  you  are  to  be  his  wife.  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

He  did  not  tell  her  then  of  the  plan  which  was  matur 
ing,  and  for  the  furtherance  of  which  Robert  was  sent 
away,  viz.,  the  purchase  of  the  homestead  whose  loss 
Dora  had  so  much  deplored. 

There  was  an  opening  in  the  town  fora  new  physician, 
the  doctor  had  ascertained  ;  and  though  be  would  dislike 
to  leave  his  many  friends  in  Beechwood,  still,  for  Dora'» 
sake,  he  could  do  so,  and  he  had  sent  Robert  to  open 
negotiations  with  the  present  proprietor  of  the  place  once 
owned  by  Colonel  Freeman,  and  for  which  there  was 
ample  means  to  pay  in  the  sum  brought  by  the  prodigal 
from  the  mines  of  California. 

But  this  was  a  secret  until  something  definite 


252  BA  EA  KTNG  THE  ENGAGEMENT. 

known,  and  Richard  willingly  acceded  to  the  Squire'i 
proposition  that  he  and  Dora  should  remain  there  until 
something  was  devised  for  the  children.  * 

Of  this  Dora  was  not  much  inclined  to  talk,  and  aa 
she  was  tired  and  excited,  the  doctor  left  her  &t  last, 
stopping  on  his  way  from  the  house  to  look  at  little 
Daisy,  whom  Jessie  held  in  her  Lap,  and  who  seemed 
feverish  and  sick.  The  doctor  did  not  then  say  what  he 
feared,  but  when  later  in  the  day  he  came  again,  the 
child's  symptoms  had  developed  so  rapidly,  that  he  had 
no  hesitancy  in  pronouncing  it  the  scarlet  fever,  then 
prevailing  to  an  alarming  extent  in  an  adjoining  town. 

Squire  Russell  had  thought  his  cup  full  to  overflowing, 
but  in  his  anxiety  for  Daisy,  he  forgot  his  recent  disap 
pointment,  and,  as  a  father  and  mother  both,  nursed  hia 
Buffering  child,  assisted  by  Jessie,  whose  services  there, 
as  elsewhere,  were  invaluable.  It  was  indeed  a  house  of 
mourning,  and  for  weeks  a  dark  cloud  brooded  over  it  as 
one  after  another,  Ben  and  Burt,  Letitia  and  Jim,  wer« 
prostrate  with  the  disease  which  Daisy  had  been  the 
first  to  take,  and  from  which  she  slowly  recovered. 
When  Letitia  was  smitten  down  Jessie  was  filled  with 
remorse,  for  she  remembered  what  she  had  said  of  the 
quiet  child,  and  with  a  sister's  tenderness  she  nursed  the 
little  girl,  who  would  take  her  medicine  from  no  one  else, 
From  the  first  Ben  and  Burt  were  not  very  ill,  but  for  a 
time  it  seemed  doubtful  which  would  gain  the  mastery, 


BREAKING  THE  ENGAGEMENT.  253 

life  or  death,  in  the  cases  of  Letitia  and  Jim.  "With  re« 
gard  to  Letitia  tl.at  question  was  soon  settled,  and  on» 
October  morning  Jessie  put  gently  back  upon  the  pillow 
the  child  who  had  died  in  her  lap,  kissing  her  the  last 
of  all  ere  she  went  the  dark  road  already  trodden  by  the 
mother,  who  in  life  would  have  chosen  anybody  else  than 
Jessie  Verner  to  have  soothed  the  last  moments  of  hbj 
little  girl. 

But  Jessie's  work  was  not  yet  done,  and  while  the  sad 
procession  went  on  its  way  to  the  village  graveyard, 
where  Margaret  was  lying,  she  sat  by  Jimmie's  side  fan 
ning  his  feverish  cheeks,  and  carefully  administering  the 
medicines  which  were  no  longer  of  avail. 

Two  days  after  Jimmie,  too,  died  in  Jessie's  lap,  and 
as  she  gave  him  into  his  father's  arms  the  weeping  man 
blessed  her  silently  for  all  she  had  been  to  him  and  his, 
aad  felt  how  doubly  desolate  he  should  be  without  her. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

GIVING   IN  MARRIAGE. 

HERE  were  two  little  graves  now  by  Marga 
ret's,  and  in  the  house  two  vacant  chairs,  and 
two  voices  hushed,  while  Squire  Russell 
counted  four  children  where  he  had  numbered  six,  and 
yet  the  unselfish  man  would  hear  of  no  delay  to  Dora's 
marriage. 

"  Let  it  go  on  the  same,"  he  said.  "  It  will  make  me 
feel  better  to  know  that  there  are  around  me  some  per 
fectly  happy  ones." 

And  so  the  day  was  appointed,  and  Bell  and  Mattie 
were  summoned  again  from  Morrisville,  whither  the  lat 
ter  had  gone  during  the  children's  illness.  Judge  Verner 
was  lonely  with  both  of  his  daughters  absent,  and  as  of 
the  two  he  was  most  accustomed  to  Bell,  he  would  have 
been  quite  content  with  having  her  back  again  if  she  had 
not  told  him  how  Jessie  had  turned  nurse  to  Squire  Rus- 
Beli's  children,  and  was  consequently  in  danger  of  taking 
the  disease.  This  roused  him,  and  in  a  characteristic 
letter  to  Jessie  he  bade  her  "  not  make  a  fool  of  herself 
any  longer  by  tending  children  with  canker- rash  and  feed- 


GIVING  IN  MARRIAGE.  255 

ing  them  with  sweetened  water,  but  to  pack  up  her  trap! 
and  come  home." 

To  this  the  saucy  Jessie  replied  that  "she  should  not 
come  home  till  she  was  ready ;  that  the  Judge  could  shut 
up,  and  what  he  called  sweetened  water  was  quite  as 
strong  as  the  medicine  which  once  cured  his  colic  so 
soon."  Then,  in  the  coaxing  tone  the  Judge  could  never 
resist,  she  added,  "  You  know  I'm  just  in  fun,  father, 
when  I  talk  like  that,  but  really  I  must  stay  till  after 
Dora  is  married,  and  you  must  let  me,  that's  a  dear,  good 
old  soul,"  and  so  the  "good  old  soul"  was  cajoled  into 
writing  that  Jessie  might  stay,  adding  in  postscript 
"  Bell  tells  me  you  say  all  sorts  of  extravagant  things 
about  that  widower,  and  this  is  well  enough  as  long  as 
they  mean  nothing,  but  for  thunder's  sake  don't  go  to 
offering  yourself  to  him  in  a  streak  of  pity.  A  nice  wife 
you  would  make  for  a  widower  with  six  children, — you 
who  don't  know  how  to  darn  a  pair  of  stockings,  nor  make 
a  bed  so  that  the  one  who  sleeps  the  back  side  won't  roll 
out  of  the  front.  Mind,  now,  don't  be  a  fool." 

"  I  wonder  what  put  that  idea  into  father's  head," 
Jessie  said,  as  she  read  the  letter.  "  I  would  not  have 
Squire  Russell,  let  alone  offering  myself  to  him.  And  I 
do  know  how  to  darn  socks.  Any  way,  I  can  pull  the 
boles  together,  which  is  just  as  well  as  to  put  in  a  ball  and 
peek  and  poke  and  weave  back  and  forth,  and  make  lace- 
work  of  it  just  as  Bell  does.  It's  a  real  old-maidish 


256  GIVING  IN  MARRIAGE. 

trick,  and  I  won't  be  an  old  maid  anyhow,  if  I  have  to 
marry  Squire  Russell,"  and  crushing  the  letter  into  he* 
pocket  Jessie  went  dancing  down  the  stairs,  whistling 
eoftly  for  fear  of  disturbing  the  sick  children. 

That  afternoon  Dora  found  her,  with  her  face  very  red 
and  anxious,  bending  over  a  basket  of  stockings  ana 
socks,  which  she  was  trying  to  darn  after  the  method 
most  approved  by  Bell.  "  Clem  had  so  much  to  do  that 
day,"  she  said,  i(  that  she  had  offered  to  help  by  taking 
the  darning  off  her  hands."  But  it  was  a  greater  task 
than  Jessie  had  anticipated,  and  Johnnie's  aid  was  called 
in  before  it  was  finished,  the  boy  proving  quite  as  effi 
cient  as  the  girl,  and  as  Clem  secretly  thought,  succeed 
ing  even  better.  This  was  before  Letitia  and  Jiinmie 
Jied,  and  since  their  death  the  Judge  had  made  no  effort 
to  call  her  home,  but  suffered  her  to  take  her  own  course, 
which  she  did  by  remaining  in  Beech  wood,  where  they 
would  have  missed  her  so  much,  and  wLere,  if  she  could 
not  darn  socks  neatly,  she  made  herself  generally  useful 
as  the  day  for  the  wedding  approached.  It  was  arranged 
to  take  place  on  Christmas  Eve,  and  it  was  Jessie  who 
first  suggested  that  the  house  should  be  trimmed  even 
more  elaborately  than  the  little  church  upon  the  common, 
where  the  ceremony  was  to  be  performed.  With  Johnnie 
as  her  prime  minister,  Jessie  could  accomplish  almost 
anything,  and  when  their  work  was  done,  every  one 
joined  heaitily  in  praise  of  the  green  festoons  and 


GIVING  IN  MARRIAftE.  257 

wreaths,  on  which  were  twined  the  scarlet  berries  of  the 
mountain  ash,  with  here  and  there  a  blossom  of  purest 
white,  purloined  from  the  costly  flowers  which  Squire 
Kussell  ordered  in  such  profusion  from  the  nearest  hot 
house.  Dora  took  but  little  part  in  the  preparations. 
She  was  very  happy,  but  her  joy  was  of  that  quiet  kind, 
which  made  her  content  to  be  still  and  rest,  after  the 
turmoil  and  wretchedness  through  which  she  had  passed. 
The  doctor  was  with  her  constantly,  and  to  Jessie,  who 
saw  the  look  of  perfect  peace  upon  his  face  and  Dora's, 
they  seemed  the  impersonation  of  bliss,  while  even  Bertie 
noted  the  change  in  Dora,  saying  to  her  once  as  she  sat 
with  the  doctor : 

"  You  don't  look  now,  Auntie,  as  you  did  when  you  was 
married  to  pa." 

Dora  could  only  blush,  while  the  doctor  laughingly 
tossed  the  little  fellow  upon  hi?  shoulder  and  carried  him 
off  to  the  office.  If  Squire  Russell  suffered,  it  was  no\ 
perceptible,  and  Jessie  thought  he  had  recovered  wondei  • 
fully,  while  Dora,  too,  hoped  the  wound  had  not  been  so 
deep  as  even  to  leave  a  scar.  He  was  very  kind  and 
thoughtful,  remembering  everything  that  was  needful  to 
be  done,  and  treating  Dora  as  if  she  had  been  his  daugh 
ter.  He  wished  her  to  forget  the  past ;  wished  to  forget 
it  himself;  and  by  the  choerful,  active  course  he  took, 
lie  bade  fair  to  do  so.  He  should  give  the  bride  away, 
he  said,  and  when  Mattie  Randall,  to  whom  he  was  • 


258  GIVING  TN  MARRIAGE. 

study,  asked  kindly  if  he  was  sure  he  was  equal  to  it,  he 
answered,  "  O  yes,  wholly  so.  I  see  now  that  Dora 
would  never  have  been  happy  with  me.  I  should  have 
laid  her  by  Madge  in  less  than  a  year.  I  am  glad  it  has 
all  happened  as  it  has." 

He  di'.l  seem  to  be  glad,  and  when,  on  the  night  of  the 
24th,  the  little  bridal  party  stood  waiting  in  the  parlor 
for  the  carriages  which  were  to  take  them  to  the  church, 
bis  face  was  as  serene  and  placid  as  if  he  had  never  hoped 
to  occupy  the  place  the  doctor  occupied.  Through  much 
sorrow  he  had  been  tried  and  purified,  until  now  in  his 
heart,  always  unselfish  and  kind,  there  was  room  for  the 
holier,  gentler  feelings  which  only  the  peace  of  God  can 
give.  Not  in  vain  had  he  in  the  solitude  of  his  chamber 
writhed  and  groaned  over  the  crushing  pang  with  which 
he  gave  Dora  up,  while  the  tears  wept  over  his  dead 
children  were  to  him  a  holier  baptism  than  any  received 
before,  washing  him  clean  and  making  him  a  noble- 
minded  Christian  man.  Margaret's  grave  had  during 
those  autumn  months  witnessed  many  an  earnest  prayer 
for  the  strength  and  peace  which  were  found  at  last,  and 
were  the  secret  of  his  composure.  Just  before  the  sun  • 
Betting  of  Dora's  bridal  day,  he  had  gone  alone  to  the 
three  lonely  graves  and  laid  upon  the  longest  the  exqui 
site  cross  of  evergreen  and  white  wax  berries  which  Jes- 
ide's  fingers  had  fashioned  for  this  very  purpose,  Jessie's 
brain  having  been  the  first  to  conceive  the  plan.  There 


GIVING  IN  MARRIAGE.  259 

was  also  a  bouquet  of  buds  for  each  of  the  smaller  graves, 
and  Squire  Russell  placed  them  carefully  upon  the  sod 
which  he  watered  with  his  tears  ;  then,  with  a  whispered 
prayer,  he  went  back  across  the  fields  to  where  Dora,  in 
her  bridal  dress,  was  waiting,  but  not  for  hi'in.  He  was 
not  the  bridegroom,  and  he  stood  aside  as  the  doctor 
bounded  up  the  stairs,  in  obedience  to  Jessie's  call  that 
he  should  come  and  see  if  ever  anybody  looked  so  sweetly 
as  his  bride,  but  charging  him  not  to  touch  her  lest  some 
band,  or  braid,  or  fold,  or  flower  should  give  way. 

"  It  won't  be  always  so,"  he  said,  standing  off  as  Jessie 
directed.  "  By  and  by  she  will  be  all  my  own,  and  then 
I  can  hug  her, — so  !  "  and  in  spite  of  Jessie's  screams,  he 
wound  his  arms  around  Dora's  neck,  giving  her  a  most 
emphatic  kiss  as  his  farewell  to  Dora  Freeman.  "  When 
I  kiss  you  again  you  will  be  Dora  West,"  '*e  whispered, 
as  he  drew  the  blushing  girl's  arm  in  his,  and  led  her 
down  the  stairs. 

The  church  was  crowded  to  its  utmost  capacity,  and  it 
was  with  some  difficulty  that  the  colored  sexton  had  kept 
a  space  cleared  for  the  bridal  party,  which  passed  slowly 
up  the  aisle,  while  the  soft  notes  of  the  organ  floated  on 
the  air.  Then  the  music  ceased,  and  only  the  rector's 
voice  was  heard,  uttering  the  solemn  words,  "  I  require 
and  charge  you  both,"  etc. ;  but  there  was  no  need  for 
fchis  appeal,  there  was  no  impediment,  no  reason  why 
these  two  hearts,  throbbing  so  lovingly,  should  not  bt 


260  GIVING   IN  MARRIAGE. 

jcaned  together,  and  so  the  rite  went  on,  while  amid  tha 
gay  throng  only  one  heart  was  heavy  and  sad.  Robert 
West,  leaning  against  a  pillar,  could  not  forget  another 
ceremony,  where  he  was  one  of  the  principal  actors,  while 
the  other  was  Anna,  beautiful  Anna,  over  whose  head 
the  snows  of  many  a  wintry  eve  had  fallen,  and  who  but 
for  him  might  have  been  now  among  the  living.  He  had 
visited  her  grave  and  Robin's,  had  knelt  on  the  turf 
which  covered  them,  and  sued  so  earnestly  for  pardon, 
had  whispered  to  the  winds  words  of  deepest  love  and 
contrition,  as  if  the  injured  dead  could  hear,  and  then  he 
had  gone  away  to  seek  the  man  whom  he  had  so  wronged, 
and  who  for  the  brother's  sake  had  kept  his  sin  a  secret. 
Uncle  Jason  had  forgiven  him,  had  said  that  all  was 
right,  that  every  trace  of  his  error  was  destroyed,  and 
Robert  had  mingled  fearlessly  again  among  his  fellow- 
men,  who,  only  guessing  in  part  his  guilt,  and  feeling  in 
tuitively  that  he  had  changed,  received  him  gladly  into 
their  midst. 

Summoned  by  his  brother's  letters,  he  had  returned  to 
Beechwood,  and  now  formed  one  of  the  party,  who,  when 
the  rite  was  over,  went  back  to  the  brightly  illuminated 
house,  where  the  Christmas  garlands,  the  box,  and  the 
pine,  and  the  fir  were  hung,  and  where  the  marriage  fes 
tivities  proceeded  rationally,  quietly,  save  as  Jessie's  bird- 
like  voice  pealed  through  the  house,  as  she  played  off  her 
jokes,,  first  upon  one  and  then  another,  adroitly  trying  to 


GIVING  IN  MARRIAGE.  261 

eons.  Bell  and  the  young  clergyman,  Mr.  Kelly,  undei 
the  mistletoe  bough,  and  then  screaming  with  delight  aa 
her  father  and  Mrs.  David  West  were  the  first  to  pass! 
within  th<,  charmed  circle.  Jessie  was  alive  with  fun 
And  frolic,  and  making  Bell  sit  down  at  the  piano, "she 
declared  that  somebody  should  dance  at  Dora's  wedding 
if  she  had  to  dance  alone. 

"Take  Johnnie,"  Dora  said,  and  the  two  were  soon 
•whirling  through  the  rooms,  the  boy's  head  coming  far 
above  the  black  curls  of  the  merry  little  maiden,  who 
flashed,  &nd  gleamed,  and  sparkled  among  the  assembled 
guests  tiy.  more  than  one  heart  beat  faster  as  it  caught 
the  influence  of  her  exhilarating  presence. 

Robert  West  dreamed  of  her  that  night ;  so  did  Mr. 
Kelly,  the  rector ;  and  so  did  Squire  Russell ;  but  the  two 
first  forgot  her  again  next  morning,  as  each  said  good-by 
to  the  handsome,  stately  Bell, — a  far  more  fitting  match 
for  either  than  the  black-eyed  sprite  who  for  a  moment 
had  made  their  pulses  quicken.  But  not  so  with  the 
Squire.  To  him  the  house  was  very  desolate  when  he 
returned  to  it,  after  having  accompanied  the  bride,  and 
groom,  and  guests  to  the  cars,  which  all  took  for  Morris- 
ville,  whither  they  were  going.  It  was  Dora  he  missed, 
the  servants  said,  pitying  him,  he  looked  so  sad,  while  he 
too  believed  it  was  Dora ;  and  still  as  he  knelt  that  day 
In  church,  there  was  beside  him  another  face  than  Dora's, 
— «  saucy,  laughing,  face,  which  we  recognize  as  belong* 


262  GIVING  IN  MARRIAGE. 

ing  to  Jessie, — who,  at  that  very  moment,  while  keeping 
her  companions  in  a  constant  turmoil  and  her  father  in 
a  constant  scold,  was  thinking  of  him  and  saying  men 
tally : 

"  Poor  Squire  Kussell !  how  I  pity  him,- -left  there  all 
i  J  and  how  I  wonder  if  he  misses  me  1  " 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

MORE    OF   MARRIAGE. 

| HE  homestead  where  Dora's  childhood  had  been 
passed  "  could  not  be  bought  for  love  nor 
money; "  so  Robert,  the  negotiator,  had  re 
ported  to  his  brother  on  the  morning  following  the  lat- 
ter's  marriage,  and  so  Richard  reported  to  Dora,  as  he 
sat  with  her  at  Mattie  Randall's,  up  in  the  chamber 
which  Dora  called  hers,  and  where  Anna  had  died. 
Mattie  had  wished  to  give  the  bridal  pair  another  room, 
but  Dora  would  take  no  other ;  and  as  Richard  was  satis 
fied,  they  occupied  the  one  whose  walls  had  witnessed 
so  much  sorrow  in  the  days  gone  by.  But  there  was  no 
grief  there  now,  nothing  but  perfect  bliss,  as  Richard 
held  his  darling  to  his  heart  and  told  her  for  the  thou 
sandth  time  how  dear  she  was  to  him,  and  how  he 
thanked  the  Father  of  all  good  for  giving  her  to  him  at 
last.  In  all  his  joy  he  never  forgot  his  God,  or  placed  Him 
second  to  Dora,  who  listened  and  smiled  and  returned 
his  fond  caresses  until  he  told  her  of  his  plan  to  buy  the 
fcomestead,  and  how  that  plan  had  been  defeated  by  tfce 
fefusul  of  the  present  proprietor.  Then  Dora  hid  her 


264  MORE  OF  MARRIAGE. 

face  in  his  bosom  and  wept  softly  to  the  memory  of  het 
old  home,  which  Richard  had  tried  so  hard  to  buy  back 
for  her. 

"  You  are  so  good,  so  kind,"  she  said,  as  he  asked  her 
why  she  cried,  and  pitied  what  he  thought  was  her  dis 
appointment.  "  It  is  not  that,"  she  continued,  as  she 
dried  her  tears.  *'  It  is  your  thoughtful  love  for  me.  I 
should  be  very  happy  at  the  old  place,  but,  Richard,  I  am 
not  sure  that  I  should  not  be  happier  in  Beechwood, 
Mrhere  I  have  lived  so  long,  and  where  you  have  so 
many  friends.  There  John's  children  would  be  nearer 
me,  and  I  must  care  for  them." 

And  so  it  was  arranged  that  Richard  should  buy  the 
fine  building  spot  to  the  right  of  Squire  Russell's,  and 
that  until  the  house  he  would  erect  should  be  completed, 
Dora  should  remain  at  home  and  care  for  the  children. 

This  plan,  when  submitted  to  the  Squire,  met  his 
hearty  approval,  and  made  the  future  look  less  dreary 
than  before.  He  should  not  be  left  alone  entirely,  for 
Dora  would  be  near  to  counsel  and  advise,  and  his  face 
was  very  bright  and  cheerful  as  he  welcomed  the  travel 
lers  back  from  their  long  trip,  which  lasted  until  Febru 
ary. 

Towards  the  latter  part  of  April,  Jossie  accepted  of 
T)ora's  cordial  invitation  to  visit  them  again,  and  came 
\0  Beechwood,  the  same  bright,  laughing,  gleeful  creature 
M  ever,  the  sunshiny  being  in  whom,  the  moment  he  saw 


MORE  OF  MARRIAGE.  265 

he**  seated  again  by  his  fireside,  Squire  Russell  recognized 
tha  want  lie  had  felt  ever  since  she  left  him  the  winter 
previous.  He  was  so  glad  to  have  her  back, — his  eldest 
chikl  he  called  her, — and  treated  her  much  as  if  he  had 
been  her  father,  notwithstanding  that  she  made  ludicrous 
attempts  at  dignity,  on  the  strength  of  being  twenty  her 
next  birthday,  which  was  in  June.  Jessie  was  very 
pretty  this  spring,  Squire  Russell  thought  when  he 
thought  of  her  at  all,  and  so  thought  the  Rector  of  St. 
Luke's,  Mr.  Kelly,  who  came  nearly  every  day,  ostensi 
bly  to  talk  with  Mrs.  Dr.  West  about  some  new  plan  for 
advancing  the  interests  of  the  Sunday-school,  but  really 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  Jessie's  sparkling  beauty,  or  hear 
some  of  her  saucy  sayings.  But  always,  when  he  left  the 
house  and  went  back  to  his  bachelor  rooms,  he  said  to 
himself,  "  It  would  never  do.  She  is  a  frolicsome,  pretty 
little  plaything,  who  would  amuse  and  rest  me  vastly,  but 
she  would  shock  my  parishioners  out  of  all  the  good 
I  could  ever  instill  into  their  minds.  No,  it  won't 
do." 

Rol-ert  West,  too,  whose  pulse  had  beaten  a  little 
faste-  at  the  sight  of  Jessie  Verner,  had  given  himself  to 
his  co-mtry,  so  there  was  no  one  to  contest  the  prize  with 
Squii'3  Russell,  into  whose  brain  the  idea  that  he  could 
win  it  never  entered  until  Johnnie  put  it  there.  To 
Johiujie  it  came  suddenly,  making  him  start  quickly  from 

the  book  he  was  reading,  and  hurry  off  to  Dr.  West, 
12 


266  MORE  OF  MARRIAGE. 

asking  if  Deacon  Bowles  was  not  a  great  deal  older  than 
Mrs.  Bowles,  whom  the  villagers  still  called  Amy,  mak 
ing  her  seem  so  youthful.  The  doctor  thought  he  was, 
bui  could  not  tell  just  how  many  years,  and  as  this  was 
the  point  about  which  Johnnie  was  anxious,  he  conceived 
the  bold  plan  of  calling  on  Mrs.  Amy  to  ascertain,  if 
possible,  her  exact  age,  and  also  that  of  her  husband. 
He  ftnrnd  her  rocking  her  baby  to  sleep  and  looking  very 
pretty  and  girlish  in  her  short  hair,  which  she  had  taken 
a  fancy  to  have  cut  off.  Amy  was  fond  of  Johnnie,  and 
she  smiled  pleasantly  upon  him,  speaking  in  a  whisper 
and  keeping  up  a  constant  "  sh-sh-sh  "  as  she  moved  the 
cradle  back  and  forth. 

*'  What  a  nice  baby,"  Johnnie  began,  as  if  he  had  never 
seen  it  before ;  "  but  it  seems  funny  to  see  you  with  a 
baby,  when  you  look  so  like  a  girl.  You  can't  be  very 
old." 

*'  Turned  thirty.     Sh-sh — "  was  the  reply. 

A  gratified  blush  mounting  Amy's  cheek,  while  John 
nie  continued : 

"  Mother  was  thirty-two,  and  father  was  thirty-nine. 
He  is  most  forty-one  now.  Is  the  deacon  older  than 
that?" 

"  Going  on  fifty-one.  Sh-sh — "  A.my  replied,  her 
c<  sh  -sh's  "  being  more  decided  as  baby  showed  signs  of 
Waking. 

Johnnie  had  learned  what  he  wished  to  know,  and  bi& 


MORE  OF  MARRIAGE.  267 

ding  Mrs.  Bowles  good  morning,  he  ran  home,  repeating 
to  himself: 

"  Turned  thirty, — going  on  fifty-one.  Ought  from  one 
is  one,  three  from  five  is  two.  That  makes  twenty-one. 
Most  twenty, — most  forty-one.  Ought  from  one  is  one, 
two  from  four  is  two.  Tliat,  makes  twenty-one.  Je 
mima  !  It'll  do,  it'll  do  !  "  and  Johnnie  ran  on  with  all 
his  might  till  he  reached  home,  where  he  found  Jessie, 
whom  he  astonished  with  a  hug  which  almost  strangled  her. 

"  It  will  do  !  it  will  do !  "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  kissed 
her,  and  when  she  asked  what  would  do,  he  answered,  "  I 
know,  I  know,  but  I  shan't  tell !  "  and  he  darted  off,  big 
with  the  important  thing  which  he  knew  and  should  not 
tell. 

That  night,  as  Squire  Russell  sat  in  his  library,  John 
nie  came  in  and  startled  him  with  the  question  : 

"  Father,  who  will  take  care  of  us  when  Aunt  Dora  if 
gone  ?  Her  new  house  will  be  done  in  September." 

"  I  don't  know,  my  son ; "  and  the  Squire  laid  down  his 
paper,  for  the  question  which  Johnnie  asked  had  also  been 
troubling  him. 

There  was  silence  a  moment,  during  which  Johnnie  al 
most  twisted  a  button  from  his  jacket,  and  then  he  broke 
out  abruptly : 

"  Why  don't  you  get  married  ?  " 

"  Married  !  To  whom  ?  "  the  Squire  exclaimed ;  and 
Johnnie  replied : 


268  MORE  OF  MARRIAGE. 

"  You  know.  The  nicest  girl  in  all  creation  after  A  unt 
Dora.  She  isn't  too  young,  neither.  Amy  Bowles  ia 
twenty-one  years  younger  than  the  deacon,  and  Jessie 
ain't  any  more." 

"Jessie!  Jessie  Verner!"  the  squire  gasped,  and 
Johnnie  continued : 

"Yes,  Jessie  Verner;  I  most  know  she'll  have  you. 
Any  way,  I'll  make  her.  You  break  the  ice,  and  I'll 
pitch  in !  Will  you,  father  ?  Will  you  have  Jessie  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  better  to  ask  first  if  she'll  have  me,"  the 
father  replied,  rubbing  his  head,  which  seemed  a  little 
numb  with  the  sudden  shock. 

"  I  hear  her.  I'll  send  her  in  !  You  ask  her,  father !  n 
Johnnie  exclaimed,  darting  to  the  door,  as  he  heard  Jes- 
Bie  in  the  upper  hall  whistling  "  three  hundred  thousand 
more." 

As  he  reached  the  threshold  he  paused,  while  he 
added : 

"  I  guess  Jessie  will  stand  a  huggin'  better  than  Aunt 
Dora,  so  you  might  come  that  game  on  her !  "  and  John 
nie  rushed  after  Jessie  ere  his  father  had  time  to  recover 
his  breath. 

jfessie  could  not  at  once  be  found,  and  as  Johnnie 
would  not  tell  her  what  his  father  wanted  of  her,  she 
was  in  no  particular  hurry  to  answer  the  summons,  so 
tliat  Squire  Russell  had  time  to  collect  his  thotights,  and 
to  discover  that  little  Jessie  "Verner  was  very  dear  to  him, 


MORE  OF  MARRIAGE.  209 

and  that  though  he  had  never  entertained  an  idea  of 
making  ker  his  wife  till  Johnnie  suggested  it,  the  idoa 
was  by  no  means  distasteful,  and  if  she  were  willing,  why 
of  course  he  was.  But  would  she  come  ?  Yes,  she  wan 
coming,  for  he  heard  her  in  the  hall  calling  back  to 
Johnnie : 

l(  Mind,  now,  if  you  have  played  me  a  trick  you  will 
be  sorry.  I  don't  believe  he  wants  me." 

"Yes  he.  does;  you  ask  Mm,"  was  Johnnie's  reply, 
and  advancing  into  the  library,  Jessie  began  innocently  : 

"  Johnnie  said  you  wanted  me.  Do  you,  Squire  Rus 
sell!" 

"  Yes,  Jessie,  I  do  want  you  very  much.  Sit  down 
while  I  tell  you." 

He  drew  her  chair  near  to  himself,  and  wholly  on- 
suspieious,  Jessie  sat  down  to  listen,  while  he  told  he! 
how  he  wanted  her. 


CHAPTER    XXVIIL 

DORA'S  DIARY. 

JAY  31st,  1863.— I  did  not  think  ^n  hen  last  I 
closed  this  book,  that  I  could  ever  be  aa 
happy  as  I  am  now, — happy  in  everything, 
happy  in  Richard's  love,  happy  in  the  love  of  God,  for 
my  precious  husband  has  been  the  means  of  leading  me 
to  the  source  of  all  happiness.  He  says  I  was  a  Chris 
tian  before,  but  I  cannot  believe  it.  At  least,  it  was  a 
flold,  tame  kind  of  Christian,  such  as  I  never  wish  to  be 
again !  Dear  Richard,  how  good  and  true  he  is,  and 
how  he  tries  to  make  me  happy.  Every  day  I  see  some 
new  virtue  in  him,  and  the  tears  often  come  as  I  wonder 
why  God  shouM  have  blessed  me  above  the  generality  of 
womankind.  1  know  I  have  the  kindest,  and  best,  and 
dearest  husband  in  the  world.  He  has  gone  for  a  few 
days  to  Fortress  Monroe,  where  Robert  is  at  present  with 
his  men,  while  Mother  West  has  gone  into  the  hospital 
as  nurse.  She  felt  it  was  her  duty,  and  we  did  not  op 
pose  her,  knowing  how  much  good  she  would  do  to  the 
poor,  suffering  soldiers.  My  heart  bleeds  for  them,  and 
yet  I  cannot  feel  it  the  doctor's  duty  to  go.  Somebody 


DORA'S  DIAR7.  271 

must  stay  at  home,  and  when  I  see  how  his  patienti 
cling  to  him,  and  how  useful  he  is  here,  I  think  it  is  hii 
place  to  stay.  If  I  am  wrong  and  selfish,  may  I  be  for 
given. 

"  In  the  autumn  our  new  house  will  be  completed,  and 
then  I  shall  leave  Margaret's  family,  but  not  alone,  for 
Jessie  is  actually  coming  to  be  John's  wife,  and  is  now 
at  home  making  her  preparations.  Does  Margaret  know  ? 
If  so,  she  surely  feels  kindly  now  toward  the  little  girl, 
who  will  make  the  best  of  mothers  to  the  children. 

"  It  was  very  strange,  and  though  Richard  and  I  had 
laughed  together  over  the  possibility,  it  took  me  wholly  by 
surprise.  I  was  sitting  in  my  room  one  night  last  April, 
waiting  for  Richard,  when  Jessie  came  rushing  in,  her 
eyes  red  with  weeping,  and  her  frame  quivering  with 
emotion.  I  was  startled,  particularly  as  she  threw  her 
self  on  the  floor  beside  me,  and  exclaimed  : 

"  '  O  Dora,  I've  done  the  silliest  thing,  and  father 
will  scold,  I  know,  and  call  me  a  fool,  and  say  I  proposed, 
when  I  didn't,  though  I  am  afraid  I  said  yes  too  quick ! 
Do  you  think  I  did  ?  Tell  me,  do.' 

"  Then  I  managed  to  get  from  her  that  she  was  engaged 
to  Squire  Russell;  that  Johnnie  inveigled  her  in  by  say 
ing  his  father  wanted  her ;  that  she  asked  if  he  did,  and  ha 
told  her,  '  Yes,  he  wanted  her  for  his  little  wife ;  wanted 
to  keep  her  always  ! '  and  she  was  so  frightened. 

" {  Oh,  you  don't  know  anything  about  it ! '  she  said. 


272  DORAS  DIARY. 

'I  felt  just  as  I  did  once  when  I  took  chloroform  to 
ha  re  a  tooth  out,  and  acted  just  so,  too,  foolish  like,  for 
I  talked  everything  and  told  him  everything ;  how  I  waf 
a  little  bit  of  a  body  who  did  not  know  anything,  who 
had  never  learned  anything,  but  had  always  done  as  I 
pleased  and  always  wanted  to  ;  how  I  could  not  be  sober 
if  I  tried,  and  would  not  if  I  could;  how  I  was  more 
fit  to  be  Johnnie's  wife  than  his  ;  how  father  was  not  as 
rich  as  some  thought,  but  had  two  apoplectic  fits  ever  so 
long  ago,  and  might  have  another  any  time  and  die,  while 
Bell  and  I  would  have  to  take  care  of  ourselves, — go  out 
governesses,  or  something ;  and,  maybe,  if  he  knew  that 
he  would  not  want  mo,  but  if  he  didn't,  and  I  ever  had 
to  be  a  governess,  perhaps  he  would  let  me  come  here  to 
teach  his  children,  and  that  was  so  silly  for  me  to  say, 
and  I  knew  it  all  the  time,  just  like  chloroform.  And 
then,  O  Dora,  how  ridiculous  the  next  thing  was.  He 
only  laughed  at  the  governess,  and  held  me  tighter,  and 
I  guess, — I  am  most  sure, — he  kissed  me;  and  I  am 
awfully  afraid.  I  kissed  him  back !  Do  you  think  I  did  ? ' 

"  I  thought  it  quite  likely,  I  said,  and  with  a  groan 
Jessie  continued : 

*'  *  The  very  silliest  thing  of  all  was  my  telling  him  I 
could  not  darn  his  socks,  nor  make  his  shirts,  and  he 
would  have  to  wear  big  holes  in  them  or  go  without ; 
and,-— oh,  do  you  believe,  he  laughed  real  loud,  and  said 
he  would  go  without  ?  Do  you  think  he  meant  it  ?  ' 


DOHA'S  DIARY.  273 

" '  Yes,  Jessie,  undoubtedly  he  meant  it,'  and  Richard'a 
merry  laugh,  broke  in  upon  us. 

"  So  absorbed  had  I  been  in  Jessie  that  I  had  not  heard 
the  doctor,  who  entered  in  time  to  hear  the  last  of  Jessie's 
confession,  and  who  at  the  recital  of  John's  magnanimity 
could  restrain  himself  no  longer,  but  laughed  long  and 
loud,  while  Jessie  wept  silently.  At  last,  however,  we 
managed  to  draw  from  her  that  in  spite  of  all  her  faults, 
every  one  of  which  she  acknowledged,  even  to  the  fact 
that  sometimes  when  going  to  parties  she  powdered  her 
arms,  and  that  four  of  her  teeth  were  filled,  John  had 
persisted  in  saying  that  he  loved  her,  and  could  not  live 
without  her ;  that  as  to  powder,  Margaret  always  used  it ; 
that  he  knew  a  place  on  Broadway  where  he  could  get 
the  very  best  article  in  use ;  that  most  everybody's  teeth  • 
were  either  false  or  filled  by  the  time  they  were  twenty, 
and  he  guessed  she  was  quite  as  genuine  as  any  of  the 
feminine  genus. 

"  '  Did  you  tell  him  abou$  the  cotton  ? '  Richard  asked, 
wickedly,  but  Jessie  innocently  replied : 

"  '  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  but  if  it's  the  sheets 
and  pillow-cases  I  am  expected  to  furnish,  Bell  bought 
four  pieces  just  before  the  rise,  and  I  know  she  will  let 
me  have  some.  Any  way,  I  shall  not  ask  Squire  Russell 
to  buy  them,'  and  thus  Richard  was  foiled  and  I  was  glad. 

'"And  so  it  is  finally  settled,  and  you  are  to  be  mj 

little  sister  ?  '  Richard  said,  and  Jessie  replied : 
18* 


£74  DORA'S  DIAR7. 

lt  *  Yes ;  that  is  I  told  him  to  ask  my  father,  and  please^ 
Dr.  West,  will  you  write  too  and  tell  him  how  I  did  not 
do  the  courting,  or  ever  think  of  such  a  thing?  Father 
will  scold,  I  know,  and  maybe  swear.  He  always  does, 
but  I  don't  care,  I — ' 

"  There  was  a  call  for  Dr.  West,  who  went  out  leaving 
us  alone;  and  then  winding  my  arm  around  Jessie,  I 
said : 

" '  And  are  you  sure  you  love  Squire  Russell  well  enough 
to  be  liis  wife  ? ' 

This  question  threw  Jessie  into  another  impetuous  out 
burst,  and  she  exclaimed : 

"  *  That  is  just  what  he  asked  me,  too ;  and  if  I  had  not 
loved  him  before  I  should  have  done  so  when  he  said,  "  I 
wish  you  to  be  certain,  Jessie,  so  there  need  be  no  after- 
repentonce.  I  have  borne  one  disappointment,"  and  he 
looked  so  white  and  sad.  "  A  second  would  kill  me.  If 

4 

I  take  you  now,  and  then  have  to  give  you  up,  my  life 
will  go  with  you.  Can  you  truly  say  you  love  me,  Jessie, 
and  are  perfectly  willing  to  be  mine  ?  " 

<c '  I  was  foolish  then,  Dora,  for  I  told  him  straight  out 
how  it  was  very  sudden;  but  the  knowing  he  loved  me 
brought  into  life  a  feeling  which  kept  growing  and  grow 
ing  so  fast,  that  even  in  a  few  minutes  it  seemed  as  if  I 
had  loved  him  all  mj  life.  He  is  so  good  and  kind,  and 
will  let  me  do  just  as  I  please.  Don't  you  believe  h« 
will?" 


DORAS  DIARY.  275 

"  J  had  no  doubt  of  it,  and  I  smoothed  her  short  curia 
while  she  told  me  how  sorry  she  was  that  she  ever  thought 
Letitia  stupid,  or  Jimmie  less  interesting  than  the  others. 

"  '  It  seems  as  if  they  died  just  to  be  out  of  my  way, 
ftnd  I  do  so  wish  they  were  back.' 

"Then  she  said  that  the  wedding  was  to  be  the  25th  of 
June,  her  twentieth  birthday,  that  is,  if  her  father  con 
sented  ;  that  John  had  promised  to  take  her  to  Europe  some 
time,  but  not  this  yeai*,  and  they  were  going  instead  to  the 
White  Mountains,  to  Newport,  and  lots  of  places,  and 
Johnnie  was  going  with  them.  Then  she  settled  her  bri 
dal  trousseau,  even  to  the  style  of  her  gaiters,  declaring 
sho  would  not  have  those  horrid  square  toes,  if  they  were 
fashionable,  for  they  made  one's  foot  so  clumsy,  and  she 
put  up  her  fairy  little  feet,  which  looked  almost  as  small 
as  Daisy's.  Dear  little  Jessie,  of  whom  I  once  was  jeal 
ous!  What  a  child  she  is,  and  what  a  task  she  is  taking 
upon  herself!  But  her  heart  is  in  it,  and  that  makes  it 
veiy  easy.  Had  I  loved  John  one  half  as  well  as  she 
seems  to  love  him,  I  should  not  now  be  Richard's  wife, 
waiting  for  him  by  the  window  as  I  wait  for  him  many 
nights,  knowing  that  though  he  chides  me  for  sitting  up 
BO  late,  he  is  usually  pleased  to  find  me  so,  and  kisses  me 
so  tenderly  as  he  calls  me  a  naughty  girl,  and  bids  me 
hurry  to  bed. 

"  JUNE  28th. — The  house  is  very  still  these  days,  fo« 
John  and  Johnnie  are  gone,  and  with  them  all  the  bustle, 


276  DORA'S  DIARY. 

the  stir,  and  the  excitement  which  has  characterized  ou* 
home  for  the  last  few  weeks.  I  invited  Bell  to  return 
with  me  from  the  wedding,  but  her  father  said  no,  he 
could  not  spare  both  his  daughters  ;  and  so  she  stayed,  he* 
tears  falling  so  fast  as  she  said  to  me  at  parting :  '  You 
cannot  guess  how  lonely  I  am,  knowing  Jessie  will  never 
come  home  to  us  again,  just  as  she  used  to  come.' 

"  Poor  Bell,  I  pity  her ;  but  amid  her  tears  I  saw,  as  I 
thought,  a  rainbow  of  promise.  As  the  clergyman  at 
Morrisville  chanced  to  be  absent,  Mr.  Kelly  went  down 
with  us  to  perform  the  ceremony,  and  if  I  am  not  mis 
taken  he  will  go  again  and  again  until  he  brings  Bell 
away  with  him.  The  wedding  was  a  quiet  affair,  save  as 
Jessie  and  Johnnie  laughed  and  sported  and  played. 
The  bride  and  groom  were,  however,  perfectly  happy, 
I  know,  which  was  more  than  could  be  said  for  the 
Judge.  At  first  he  had,  as  Jessie  predicted,  said  all  kinds 
of  harsh  things  about  the  match,  but  Bell  and  Jessie  won 
him  over,  until  he  was  ready  to  receive  his  son-in-law 
with  the  utmost  kindness,  which  he  did,  acting  the  polite, 
urbane  host  to  perfection,  and  only  breaking  down  when 
Jessie  came  to  say  good-by.  Then  he  showed  how  much 
he  loved  his  baby,  as  he  called  her,  commending  her  so 
touchingly  to  her  husband's  patient  care,  because  *  she 
was  a  wee,  helpless  thing,'  that  we  all  cried,  Richard  and 
all,  while  the  Squire  could  not  resist  giving  his  fairy 
bride  *  most  substantial  hug,  right  before  us  all,  as  he 


DORA8  DIAR7.  277 

promised  to  care  for  her  as  tenderly  as  if  she  were  hia 
little  Daisy  instead  of  his  little  wife.  I  have  no  fears  for 
them.  It  is  a  great  responsibility  which  Jessie  has  as 
sumed,  but  her  sunny  nature,  which  sees  only  the  bright 
est  side,  and  the  mighty  love  which  her  husband  and 
Johnnie  have  given  her,  will  interpose  between  her  and 
all  that  otherwise  might  be  hard  to  bear.  God  bless  her. 
God  keep  her  in  all  her  pleasant  journeyings,  and  bring 
her  safely  back  to  us,  who  wait  and  watch  for  her  as  for 
the  refreshing  rain. 

"  DECEMBER  24th,  1863 — CHRISTMAS  EVE. — Just  one 
year  I  have  been  Richard's  wife,  and  in  that  time  I  can 
not  recall  a  single  moment  of  sadness,  or  a  time  when 
Richard's  voice  and  manner  were  not  just  as  kind  and 
loving  as  at  first.  My  noble  husband,  how  earnestly  I 
pray  that  I  may  be  worthy  of  him,  and  make  Mm  as 
happy  as  he  makes  me.  We  are  in  our  new  home  now, 
and  I  cannot  think  of  a  single  wish  ungratified.  Every 
thing  is  as  I  like  it.  The  furniture  is  of  my  awn  and 
Richard's  selecting,  and  is  as  good  as  our  mewis  would 
afford, — not  grand  and  costly  like  Mattie's  and  Jessie's, 
but  plain  and  nice,  such  as  the  furniture  of  a  "village  doc 
tor's  wife  ought  to  be.  And  Richard's  mother  is  with  us 
now,  resting  from  the  toils  of  life  as  nurse  in  the  hos 
pital.  "We  would  like  so  much  to  keep  her,  \  ai  she  sayi 
'  No,  not  till  the  war  is  over  ;  then  if  my  lif  >  is  spared, 
I  will  come  back  to  live  and  die  with  my  children.' 


278  DOKVB  DIARY. 

t{  Captain  Robert  is  coming  to-night  and  to-morrow  ail 
take  their  Christmas  dinner  with  me  ;  I  said  all,  mean* 
ing  John  and  Jessie,  with  their  four  children,  and  Mr. 
Kelly,  with  his  bride,  Isabel.  She  has  been  here  just  a 
week  in  the  parsonage,  which  the  people  bought  and  fitted 
up  when  they  heard  their  clergyman  was  to  bring  his  wife 
among  them.  Judge  Verner,  too,  is  there,  or  rather  at 
Squire  Russell's,  where  the  children  call  him  grandpa, 
and  where  he  seems  very  fond  of  staying.  He  will 
divide  his  time  between  his  daughters,  and  if  that  apo 
plectic  fit  of  which  Jessie  spoke  ever  does  make  its  ap 
pearance,  Richard  will  be  near  to  attend  him,  for  the 
Judge  will  have  no  other  physician.  '  Homoeopathy  is  all 
a  humbug,'  he  says,  *  but  hanged  if  he  will  take  any  other 
medicine.'  He  has  great  pride  now  in  Mrs.  Squire  Rus 
sell,  who  certainly  has  developed  into  a  wonderfully  do 
mestic  woman,  so  that  Richard  even  cites  her  for  my  ex 
ample.  Perfectly  happy  at  home,  she  seldom  cares  to 
leave  it,  but  stays  contentedly  with  the  children,  to  whom 
she  is  a  mother  and  a  sister  both.  Johnnie  calls  her 
Jessie,  but  to  the  others  she  is  mamma  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  and  could  Margaret  know,  she  would  surely 
bless  the  whistling,  hoydenish  girl,  who  is  all  the  world 
now  to  husband  and  children  both. 

"  Dear  Jessie  !  I  might  write  volumes  in  her  praise,  but 
this  is  the  very  last  page  of  my  journal,  kept  for  so  many 
Tears.  The  book  is  filled ;  whatever  there  was  of  ro- 


DORAS  DIARY.  279 

mance  in  my  girl  history  is  within  its  pages,  and  here  at 
its  close  I  write  myself  a  happy,  happy  woman.  From 
the  church-tower  on  the  common  the  clock  is  striking 
twelve,  and  Richard,  coming  in  from  his  long  cold  ride 
across  the  snow-clad  hills,  bids  me  a  merry  Christmas , 
then  glancing  at  what  I  have  written,  he  says,  '  Yes,  dar 
ling,  God  has  been  very  good  to  us.  Let  us  love  Him 
through  the  coming  year  more  than  ever  we  have  done 
before.' 

"  With  a  full  heart  I  say  Amen,  and  so  the  story  u 


THE  RECTOR  OF  ST.  MARK'S. 


TEE  SECTOR  OF  ST.  IARFS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

FRIDAY   AFTERNOON. 

||HE  Sunday  sermon  was  tinished,  and  the  yourg 
rector  of  St.  Mark's  turned  gladly  from  his  study- 
table  to  the  pleasant  south  window  where  the 
June  roses  were  peeping  in,  and  abandoned  himself  for  a 
few  moments  to  the  feeling  of  relief  he  always  experienced 
when  his  week's  work  was  done.  To  say  that  no  secular 
thoughts  had  intruded  themselves  upon  the  rector's  mind, 
as  he  planned  and  wrote  his  sermon,  would  not  be  true, 
for,  though  morbidly  conscientious  on  many  points  and 
earnestly  striving  to  be  a  faithful  shepherd  of  the  soula 
committed  to  his  care,  Arthur  Leighton  had  all  a  man's 
capacity  to  love  and  to  be  loved,  and  though  he  fought 
and  prayed  against  it,  he  had  seldom  brought  a  sermon  to 
the  people  of  St.  Mark's  in  which  there  was  not  a  thought 
of  Anna  Ruthven's  soft,  brown  eyes,  and  the  way  they 
would  look  at  him  across  the  heads  of  the  congregation, 
Anna  led  the  village  choir,  and  the  rector  was  painfully 


284  FRIDAY  AFTERNOON. 

conscious  that  far  too  much  of  earth  was  mingled  with 
his  devotional  feelings  during  the  moments  when,  the 
singing  over,  he  walked  from  his  chair  to  the  pulpit,  and 
heard  the  rustle  of  the  crimson  curtain  in  the  crgan-loft 
as  it  was  drawn  back,  disclosing  to  view  five  heads,  of 
which  Anna's  was  the  centre.  It  was  very  wrong  he 
knew,  and  on  the  day  when  our  story  opens  he  had  prayed 
earnestly  for  pardon,  when,  after  choosing  his  text,  ft  Si 
mon,  Simon,  lovest  thou  me  ?  "  instead  of  plunging  at 
once  into  his  subject,  he  had,  without  a  thought  of  what 
he  was  doing,  idly  written  upon  a  scrap  of  paper  tying 
near,  l(  Anna,  Anna,  lovest  thou  me  more  than  these  ?  " 
the  these  referring  to  the  wealthy  Thornton  Hastings,  his 
old  classmate  in  college,  who  was  going  to  Saratoga  thia 
very  summer  for  the  purpose  of  meeting  Anna  Ruthven, 
and  deciding  if  she  would  do  to  become  Mrs.  Thornton 
Hastings,  and  mistress  of  the  house  on  Madison  Square. 
With  a  bitter  groan  for  the  enormity  of  his  sin,  and  a  fer 
vent  prayer  for  forgiveness,  the  rector  had  torn  the  slips 
of  paper  in  shreds  and  given  himself  so  completely  to  hia 
work,  that  his  sermon  was  done  a  full  hour  earlier  than 
usual,  and  he  was  free  to  indulge  in  reveries  of  Anna  for 
as  long  a  time  as  he  pleased. 

"  I  wonder  if  Mrs.  Meredith  has  como,"  he  thought) 
as,  with  his  feet  upon  the  window-sill,  he  sat  locking 
across  the  meadow  to  where  the  chimneys  ani  gable 
roof  of  Captain  Humphreys'  house  were  visible,  for  Cap- 


FRIDAY  AFTERNOON.  285 

tain  Humphreys  was  Anna  Ruthven's  grandfather,  and 
it  was  there  she  had  lived  since  she  was  three  years  old. 

As  if  thoughts  of  Mrs.  Meredith  reminded  him  ol 
•omething  else,  the  rector  took  from  the  drawer  of  his 
writing-table  a  letter  received  the  previous  day,  and 
opening  to  the  second  page,  read  as  follows  : 

"  Are  you  going  anywhere  this  summer  ?  Of  course 
not,  for  so  long  as  there  is  an  unbaptized  child,  or  a  bed 
ridden  old  woman  in  the  parish,  you  must  stay  at  home, 
even  if  you  do  grow  as  rusty  as  did  Professor  Cobden'a 
coat  before  we  boys  made  him  a  present  of  a  new  one. 
I  say,  Arthur,  there  was  a  capital  fellow  spoiled  when 
you  took  to  the  ministry,  with  your  splendid  talents, 
and  rare  gift  for  making  people  like  and  believe  in  you. 

"  Now,  I  suppose  you  will  reply  that  for  this  denial 
of  self  you  look  for  your  reward  in  heaven,  and  I  sup 
pose  you  are  right ;  but  as  I  have  no  reason  to  think  I 
have  stock  in  that  region,  I  go  in  for  a  good  time  here, 
and  this  summer  1  take  Saratoga,  where  I  expect  to 
meet  one  of  your  lambs.  I  hear  you  have  in  your  flock 
forty  in  all,  their  ages  varying  from  sixteen  to  fifty.  But 
this  particular  lamb,  Miss  Anna  Rwthven,  is,  I  think, 
the  fairest  of  them  all,  and  as  I  used  to  make  you  my 
father  confessor  in  the  days  when  I  was  rusticated  out  in 
Winsted,  and  fell  so  desperately  in  love  with  the  six 
Miss  Lark  ins,  each  old  enough  to  be  my  mother,  so  now 
I  confida  to  you  the  programme  as  marked  out  by  Mrs, 


286  FRIDAY  AFTERNOON. 

Julia  Meredith,  the  general  who  brings  the  lovely  Anna 
in  the  field. 

"  We,  that  is,  Mrs.  Meredith  and  myself,  are  on  the 
best  of  terms.  I  lunch  with  her,  dine  with  her,  lounga 
in  her  parlors,  drive  her  to  the  park,  take  her  to  operas, 
concerts,  and  plays,  and  compliment  her  good  looks, 
which  are  wonderfully  well-preserved  for  a  woman  of 
forty-five.  I  am  twenty-six,  you  know,  and  so  no  one 
ever  associates  us  together  in  any  kind  of  gossip.  She 
is  the  very  quintessence  of  fashion,  and  I  am  one  of  the 
danglers  whose  own  light  is  made  brighter  by  the  reflec 
tion  of  her  rays.  Do  you  see  the  point  ?  Well,  then, 
in  return  for  my  attentions,  she  takes  a  very  sisterly  in 
terest  in  my  future  wife,  and  has  adroitly  managed  to  let 
me  know  of  her  niece,  a  certain  Anna  Ruthven,  who,  in 
asmuch  as  I  am  tired  of  city  belles,  will  undoubtedly 
suit  my  fancy,  said  Anna  being  very  fresh,  very  artless, 
and  very  beautiful  withal.  She  is  also  niece  to  Mrs. 
Meredith,  whose  only  brother  married  very  far  beneath 
him,  when  he  took  to  wife  the  daughter  of  a  certain  old- 
fashioned  Captain  Humphreys,  a  pillar,  no  doubt,  in  your 
church.  This  young  Ruthven  was  drowned,  or  hung,  or 
something,  and  the  sister  considers  it  as  another  proof  of 
his  wife's  lack  of  refinement  and  discretion,  that  at  her 
death,  which  happened  when  Anna  was  three  years  old, 
she  loft  her  child  to  the  charge  of  her  parents,  Captain 
Humphreys  and  spouse,  rather  than  to  Mrs.  Meredith's 


FRIDAY  AFTERNOON.  287 

care,  and  that,  too,  in  the  very  face  of  the  lady's  having 
stood  as  sponsor  for  the  infant,  an  act  which  you  will 
acknowledge  as  very  unnatural  and  ungrateful  in  Mrs 
Ruthven,  to  say  the  least  of  it. 

"  You  see  I  am  telling  you  all  this,  just  as  if  you  did 
not  know  Miss  Anna's  antecedents  even  better  than  my 
self  ;  but  possibly  you  do  not  know  that,  having  arrived 
at  a  suitable  age,  she  is  this  summer  to  be  introduced 
into  society  at  Saratoga,  while  I  am  expected  to  fall  in 
love  with  her  at  once,  and  make  her  Mrs.  Hastings  be 
fore  another  winter.  Now,  in  your  straightforward  way 
of  putting  things,  don't  imagine  that  Mrs.  Meredith  has 
deliberately  told  me  all  this,  for  she  has  not ;  but  I  un 
derstand  her  perfectly,  and  know  exactly  what  she  ex 
pects  me  to  do.  Whether  I  do  it  or  not  depends  partly 
upon  how  I  like  Miss  Anna,  partly  upon  how  she  likes 
me,  and  partly  upon  yourself. 

"  You  know  I  was  always  famous  for  presentiments  or 
fancies,  as  you  termed  them,  and  the  latest  of  these  is 
that  you  like  Anna  Ruthven.  Do  you  ?  Tell  me,  honor 
bright,  and  by  the  memory  of  the  many  scrapes  you  got 
me  out  of,  and  the  many  more  you  kept  me  from  getting 
into,  I  will  treat  Miss  Arn^a  as  gingerly  and  brotherly  as 
if  she  were  already  your  -wife.  I  like  her  picture,  which 
I  hare  seen,  and  believe  I  shall  like  the  girl,  but  if  you 
say  that  by  looking  at  her  with  longing  eyes  I  shall  be 
gpsilty  of  breaking  some  one  of  the  tea  commandments,-  -J 


288  FRIDAY  AFTERNOON. 

don*t  know  which, — why,  then,  hands  off  at  once.  That'll 
fair,  and  will  prove  to  you  that,  although  not  a  parson 
liie  yourself,  there  is  still  a  spark  of  honor,  if  not  of 
grodness,  in  the  breast  of 

"  Yours  truly, 

"THOBNTON  HASTINGS. 

"  If  you  were  here  this  afternoon,  I'd  take  you  to 
drive  after  a  pair  of  bays,  which  are  to  sweep  the  stakes 
at  Saratoga  this  summer,  and  I'd  treat  you  to  a  finer 
cigar  than  often  finds  its  way  to  Hanover.  Shall  I  send 
you  out  a  box,  or  would  your  people  pull  down  the 
church  about  the  ears  of  a  minister  wicked  enough  to 
smoke.  Again  adieu. 

"T.  H." 

There  was  a  half-amused  smile  on  the  face  of  the  rec 
tor  as  he  finished  the  letter,  So  like  its  thoughtless,  light- 
hearted  writer,  and  wondered  what  the  Widow  Rider, 
across  the  way,  would  say  of  a  clergyman  who  smoked 
cigars,  and  rode  after  a  race-horse  with  such  a  gay  scape 
grace  as  Thornton  Hastings.  Then  the  amused  look 
passed  away,  and  was  succeeded  by  a  shadow  of  pain,  as 
the  rector  remembered  the  real  import  of  Thornton's 
latter,  and  felt  that  he  had  no  right  to  say,  "  I  have  a 
claim  on  Anna  Ruthven ;  you  must  not  interfere."  For 
he  had  no  claim  on  her,  though  half  his  parishioners  had 


FRIDAY  AFTERNOON.  289 

*ong  ago  given  her  to  him,  while  he  had  loved  her,  as 
only  natures  like  his  can  love,  since  that  week  before 
Christ  mas,  when  their  hands  had  met  with  a  strange^ 
tremulous  flutter,  as  together  they  fastened  the  wreaths 
of  evergreen  upon  the  wall,  he  holding  them  up,  and  she 
driving  the  refractory  tacks,  which  would  keep  falling,  so 
that  his  hand  went  often  from  the  carpet  or  basin  to 
hers,  and  once  accidentally  closed  almost  entirely  over  the 
little  soft  white  thing,  which  felt  so  warm  to  his  touch. 

How  prettily  Anna  had  looked  to  him  during  those 
memorable  days,  so  much  prettier  than  the  other  young 
girls  of  his  flock,  whose  hair  was  tumbled  ere  the  day's 
wortc  was  done,  and  whose  dresses  were  soiled  and  dis 
ordered  ;  while  hers  was  always  so  tidy  and  neat,  and 
the  braids  of  her  chestnut  hair  were  always  so  smooth 
and  bright.  How  well,  too,  he  remembered  that  brief 
ten  minutes,  when,  in  the  dusky  twilight  which  had  crept 
so  early  into  the  church,  he  stood  alone  with  her  and 
talked,  he  did  not  know  of  what,  only  that  he  heard  her 
voice  replying  to  him,  and  saw  the  changeful  color  on 
her  cheek  as  she  looked  modestly  into  his  face.  That 
was  a  week  of  delicious  happiness,  and  the  rector  had 
lived  it  over  many  times,  wondering  if,  when  the  next 
Christmas  came,  it  would  find  him  any  nearer  to  Anna 
Ruthven  than  the  last  had  left  him. 

"  It   must,"   he   suddenly   exclaimed.     "  The  matter 

shall  be  settled  before  she  leaves  Hanover  with   Mrs. 
13 


290  FRIDAI  AFTERNOON. 

Meredith.  My  claim  is  superior  to  Thornton's,  and  he 
shall  not  take  her  from  me.  I'll  write  what  I  lack  the 
courage  to  tell  her,  and  to-morrow  I  will  call  and  deliver 
it  myself." 

An  hour  later,  and  there  was  lying  in  the  rector's 
desk  a  letter,  in  which  he  had  told  Anna  Ruthven  how 
much  he  loved  her,  and  had  asked  her  to  be  his  wife. 
Something  whispered  that  she  would  not  refuse  him,  and 
with  this  hope  to  buoy  him  up,  his  two  miles'  walk  that 
warm  afternoon  was  neither  warm  nor  tiresome,  and  the 
old  lady  by  whose  bedside  he  read  and  prayed  was  sur 
prised  to  hear  him  as  he  left  her  door,  whistling  an  old 
love-tune  whict  she,  too,  had  known  an  il  sang  fifty  yean 
More. 


CHAPTER  H. 

SATURDAY    AFTERNOON. 

RS.  JULIA  MEEEDITH  had  arrived,  and  th« 
brown  farm-house  was  in  a  state  of  unusual  ex 
citement ;  not  that  Captain  Humphreys  or  his 
good  wife,  Aunt  Ruth,  respected  very  highly  the  great 
lady  who  so  seldom  honored  them  with  her  presence,  and 
who  always  tried  to  impress  them  with  a  sense  of  her 
superiority,  and  the  mighty  favor  she  conferred  upon 
them  by  occasionally  condescending  to  bring  her  aristo 
cratic  presence  into  their  quiet,  plain  household,  and  turn 
it  topsy-turvy.  Still  she  was  Anna's  aunt,  and  then  it 
was  a  distinction  which  Aunt  Ruth  rather  enjoyed, — that 
of  having  a  fashionable  city  woman  for  her  guest, — and 
so  she  submitted  with  a  good  grace  to  the  breaking  in 
upon  all  her  customs,  and  uttered  no  word  of  complaint 
when  the  breakfast-table  waited  till  eight,  and  sometimes 
nine  o'clock,  and  the  freshest  eggs  were  taken  from  the 
uest,  and  the  cream  all  skimmed  from  the  pans  to  gratify 
the  lady  who  came  very  charming  and  pretty  in  her 
handsome  cambric  wrapper,  with  rosebuds  in  hor  hair 
Bho  had  arrived  the  previous  night,  and  while  the  rectoi 


292  SATURDAY  AFTERNOON. 

was  penning  his  letter,  she  was  running  her  eye  rapidly 
over  Anna's  face  and  form,  making  an  inventory  of  her 
charms,  and  calculating  their  value. 

"  A  very  graceful  figure,  neither  too  short  nor  too  talL 
This  she  gets  from  the  Ruthvens.  Splendid  eyes  and 
magnificent  hair,  when  Valencia  has  once  taken  it  in 
hand.  Complexion  a  little  too  brilliant,  but  a  few  weeks 
of  dissipation  will  cure  that.  Fine  teeth,  and  features 
tolerably  regular,  except  that  the  mouth  is  too  wide  and 
the  forehead  too  low,  which  defects  she  takes  from  the 
Humphreys.  Small  feet  and  rather  pretty  hands,  except 
that  they  seem  to  have  grown  wide  since  I  saw  her  be 
fore.  Can  it  be  these  horrid  people  have  set  her  to  milk' 
ing  the  cows  ?  " 

These  were  Mrs.  Meredith's  thoughts  that  first  evening 
after  her  arrival  at  the  farm-house,  and  she  had  not 
materially  changed  her  mind  when  the  next  afternoon 
she  went  with  Anna  down  to  the  Glen,  for  which  she 
affected  a  great  fondness,  because  she  thought  it  was 
romantic  and  girlish  to  do  so,  and  she  was  far  from  hav 
ing  passed  the  period  when  women  cease  caring  for  youth 
and  its  appurtenances.  She  had  criticised  Anna's  taste 
in  dress, — had  said  that  the  belt  she  selected  did  not 
harmonize  with  the  color  of  the  muslin  she  wore,  and 
suggested  that  a  frill  of  lace  about  the  neck  would  be 
softer  and  more  becoming  than  the  stiff  white  linen 
eollai 


SATURDAY  AFTERNOON.  293 

" "  But  in  the  country  it  does  not  matter,"  she  added. 
M  Wait  till  I  get  you  to  New  York,  under  Madam 
Blank's  supervision,  and  then  we  shall  see  a  transforma 
tion  such  as  will  astonish  the  Hanoverians." 

TMs  was  up  in  Anna's  room ;  and  when  the  Glen  was 
reached  Mrs.  Meredith  continued  the  conversation,  tell 
ing  Anna  of  her  plans  for  taking  her  first  to  New  York, 
where  she  was  to  pass  through  a  reformatory  process 
with  regard  to  dress.  Then  they  were  going  to  Saratoga, 
where  she  expected  her  niece  to  reign  supreme,  both  as  a 
beauty  and  a  bolle. 

"  Whatever  I  have  at  my  death  I  shall  leave  to  you," 
she  said ;  "  consequently  you  will  pass  as  an  heiress  ex 
pectant,  and  I  confidently  expect  you  to  make  a  brilliant 
match  before  the  winter  season  closes,  if,  indeed,  you  do 
not  before  we  leave  Saratoga." 

"  O  aunt,"  Anna  exclaimed,  her  eyes  flashing  wil  h 
unwonted  brilliancy,  and  the  rich  color  mantling  hur 
cheek.  "You  surely  are  not  taking  me  to  Saratoga  <m 
such  a  shameful  errand  as  that  ?  " 

"  Shameful  errand  as  what  ?  "  Mrs.  Meredith  asked, 
looking  quickly  up,  while  Anna  replied  : 

"  Trying  to  find  a  husband.  I  cannot  go  if  you  are, 
much  as  I  have  anticipated  it.  I  should  despise  and 
hate  myself  forever.  No,  aunt,  I  cannot  go." 

ft  Nonsense,  child.  You  don't  know  what  you  arc 
•aying,'*  Mrs.  Meredith  retorted,  feeling  intuitively  that 


294  SATURDAY  AFTERNOON. 

she  must  change  her  tactics  and  keep  her  real  intention* 
concealed  if  she  would  lead  her  niece  into  the  snare  laid 
for  her. 

OunningV  and  carefully  for  the  next  half  hour  ehe 
talked,  teP.ng  Anna  that  she  was  not  to  be  thrust  upon 
the  notice  of  any  one, — that  she  herself  had  no  patience 
with  those  intriguing  .mammas  who  push  their  bold 
daughter?  forward,  but  that  as  a  good  marriage  was  the 
ultimo  ',hule  of  a  woman's  hopes,  it  was  but  natural  that 
she,  a?  Anna's  aunt,  should  wish  to  see  her  well  settled 
in  life,  and  settled,  too,  near  herself,  where  they  could 
see  each  other  every  day. 

"  Of  course  there  is  no  one  in  Hanover  whom  you,  as 
a  Ruthven,  would  stoop  to  marry,"  she  said,  fixing  her 
eyes  inquiringly  upon  Anna,  who  was  pulling  to  pieces 
the  wild  flowers  she  had  gathered,  and  thinking  of 
that  twilight  hour  when  she  had  talked  with  their 
young  clergyman  as  she  never  talked  before.  Of  the 
many  times,  too,  when  they  had  met  in  the  cottages 
of  the  poor,  and  he  had  walked  slovly  home  with  her, 
lingering  by  the  gate  as  if  loth  to  say  good-by,  she 
thought,  and  the  life  she  had  lived  since  he  first  came  to 
Hanover,  and  she  learned  to  blush  when  she  met  the 
glance  of  his  eye,  looked  fairer  far  thac  the  life  her  aunt 
marked  out  as  the  proper  one  for  a  Ruthven. 

"  You  have  not  told  me  yet.  Is  there  any  one  in 
Hanover  M  horn  you  think  worthy  of  you  ?  "  Mrs.  Mere* 


SATC'BDAT  AFTERNOON.  295 

dith  asked,  just  as  a  footstep  was  heard,  and  the  rector 
of  St.  Mark's  came  round  the  rock  where  they  were 
sitting 

He  had  called  at  the  farm-house,  bringing  the  letter, 
and  with  it  a  book  of  poetry,  of  which  Anna  had  asked 
the  loan. 

Taking  advantage  of  her  guest's  absence,  Grandma 
Humphreys  had  gone  to  a  neighbor's  after  a  receipt  foi 
making  a  certain  kind  of  cake,  of  which  Mrs.  Meredith 
was  very  fond,  and  only  Esther,  the  servant,  and  Valen 
cia,  the  smart  waiting-maid,  without  whom  Mrs.  Mere 
dith  never  travelled,  were  left  in  charge. 

"  Miss  Anna's  down  in  the  Glen  with  Mrs.  Meredith. 
Will  you  be  pleased  to  wait  while  I  call  them  ?  "  Esther 
said,  in  reply  to  the  rector's  inquiries  for  Miss  Ruthven. 

"No,  I  will  find  them  myself,"  Mr.  Leighton  rejoined. 
Then,  as  he  thought  how  impossible  it  would  be  to 
give  the  letter  to  Anna  in  the  presence  of  her  aunt,  he 
slipped  it  into  the  book,  which  he  bade  Esther  take  to 
Miss  Ruthven's  room. 

Knowing  how  honest  and  faithful  Esther  was,  the 
rector  felt  that  he  could  trust  her  without  a  fear  for 
the  safety  of  his  letter,  and  went  to  the  Glen,  where 
the  tell-tale  blushes  which  burned  on  Anna's  cheek  at 
eight  of  him  more  than  compensated  for  the  coolneaa 
with  which  Mrs.  Meredith  greeted  him.  She,  too,  had 
detected  Anna's  embarrassment,  and  when  the  strangei 


296  SATURDAY  AFTERNOON. 

was  presented  to  her  as  "  Mr.  Leighton,  our  clergyman." 
the  secret  was  out. 

"  Why  is  it  that  since  the  beginning  of  time  girls  have 
run  wild  after  young  ministers  ?  "  was  her  mental  com 
ment,  as  she  bowed  to  Mr.  Leighton,  and  then  quietly 
inspected  his  personnel. 

There  was  nothing  about  Arthur  Leighton's  appear 
ance  with  which  she  could  find  fault.  He  was  even 
finer-looking  than  Thornton  Hastings,  her  beau  ideal  of 
a  man,  and  as  he  stood  a  moment  by  Anna's  side,  look 
ing  down  upon  her,  the  woman  of  the  world  acknowl 
edged  to  herself  that  they  were  a  well-assorted  pair, 
and  as  across  the  chasm  of  twenty  years  there  came 
to  her  an  episode  in  her  life,  when,  on  just  such  a  day 
as  this,  she  had  answered  "  no  "  to  one  as  young  and 
worthy  as  Arthur  Leighton,  while  all  the  time  the 
heart  was  clinging  to  him,  she  softened  for  a  moment, 
and  by  the  memory  of  the  weary  years  passed  with 
the  rich  old  man  whose  name  she  bore,  she  was  tempted 
to  leave  alone  the  couple  standing  there  before  her,  and 
looking  into  each  other's  eyes  with  a  look  which  she 
could  not  mistake.  But  when  she  remembered  that 
Arthur  was  only  a  poor  clergyman,  and  thought  of  that 
house  on  Madison  Square  which  Thornton  Hastings 
owned,  the  softened  mood  was  changed,  and  Arthur 
Leighton's*  chanoe  with  her  was  gone. 

Awhile  they  talked  together  in  the  Glen,  and  then 


SATURDAY  AFTERNOON.  297 

walked  back  to  the  farm-house,  where  the  rector  bade 
them  good-evening,  after  casually  saying  to  Anna : 

"  I  brought  the  book  you  spoke  of  when  I  was  her« 
last.  You  will  find  it  in  your  room,  where  I  asked 
Esther  to  take  it." 

That  Mr.  Leighton  should  bring  her  niece  a  book  did 
not  seem  strange  at  all,  but  that  he  should  be  so  very 
thoughtful  as  to  tell  Esther  to  take  it  to  her  room  struck 
Mrs.  Meredith  as  rather  odd,  and  as  the  practised  war- 
horse  scents  the  battle  from  afar,  so  she  at  once  suspected 
something  wrong,  and  felt  a  curiosity  to  know  what  the 
book  could  be. 

It  was  lying  on  Anna's  table  as  she  reached  the  door 
on  her  way  to  her  own  room,  and  pausing  for  a  moment, 
she  entered  the  chamber,  took  it  in  her  hands,  read  the 
title  page,  and  then  opened  it  where  the  letter  lay. 

"  Miss  Anna  Ruthven,"  she  said.  ""  He  writes  a  fair 
hand ; "  and  then,  as  the  thought,  which  at  first  was 
scarce  a  thought,  kept  growing  in  her  minJ,  she  turned 
it  over,  and  found  that,  owing  to  some  defect,  it  had  be 
come  unsealed,  and  the  lid  of  tfae  envelope  lay  temptingly 
open  before  her.  "  I  would  never  break  a  seal,"  she 
said,  "  but  surely,  as  her  protector,  and  almost  mother,.  I 
may  read  what  this  minister  has  written  to  my  niece." 

A  ad  so  she  read  what  he  had  written,  while  a  scowl 
of  disapprobation  marred  the  smoothness  of  her  brow. 

"  It  is  as  I  feared.     Once  let  her  see  this,  and  Th  vrntoa 
18* 


298  SATURDAY  AFTERNOON. 

Hastings  may  woo  in  vain.  But  it  shall  not  be.  It  u 
my  duty,  as  the  sister  of  her  dead  father,  to  interfere, 
and  not  let  her  throw  herself  away." 

Perhaps  Mrs.  Meredith  really  felt  that  she  was  doing 
her  duty.  At  all  events  she  did  not  give  heiself  much 
time  to  reason  upon  the  matter,  for,  startled  by  a  slight 
movement  in  the  room  directly  opposite,  the  door  of 
which  was  ajar,  she  thrust  the  letter  into  her  pocket, 
and  turned  to  see — Valencia,  standing  with  her  back 
to  her,  and  arranging  her  hair  in  a  mirror  which  hung 
upon  the  wall. 

"  She  could  not  have  seen  me ;  and,  even  if  she 
lid,  she  would  not  suspect  the  truth,"  was  the  guilty 
woman's  thought,  as  with  the  stolen  missive  in  her 
pocket  she  went  down  to  the  parlor,  and  tried,  by  pet 
ting  Anna  more  than  her  wont,  to  still  the  voice  of  con 
science,  which  clamored  loudly  of  the  wrong,  and  urged 
a  restoration  of  the  letter  to  the  place  whence  it  was 
taken. 

But  the  golden  moment  fled,  and  when,  later  in  the 
eveuing,  Anna  went  up  to  her  chamber,  and  opened  the 
*/>ok  which  the  rector  had  brought,  she  never  suspected 
how  near  she  had  been  to  the  great  happiness  she  had 
sometimes  dared  to  hope  for,  or  dreamed  how  fervently 
Arthur  Leighton  prayed  that  night,  that  if  it  were  possi 
ble,  God  would  grant  the  boon  he  craved  above  all  others, 
— the  priceless  gift  of  Anna  Ruthven's  love. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

SUNDAY. 

H.ERE  was  an  unnatural  flush  on  the  rector'i 
face,  and  his  lips  were  very  white,  when  he 
came  before  his  people  that  Sunday  morning,  for 
he  felt  that  he  was  approaching  the  crisis  of  his  fate ; 
that  he  had  only  to  look  across  the  row  of  heads,  up  to 
where  Anna  sat,  and  he  should  know  the  truth.  Such 
thoughts  savored  far  too  much  of  the  world  which  he  had 
renounced,  lie  knew,  and  he  had  striven  to  banish  them 
from  his  mind ;  but  they  were  there  still,  and  would  be 
there  until  he  had  glanced  once  at  Anna,  who  was  occu 
pying  her  accustomed  seat,  and  quietly  turning  to  the 
chant  she  was  so  soon  to  sing :  "  Oh,  come,  let  us  sing 
unto  the  Lord;  let  us  heartily  rejoice  in  the  strength  ol 
His  salvation."  The  words  echoed  through  the  house, 
filling  it  with  rare  melody,  for  Anna  was  in  perfect  tone 
that  morning,  and  the  rector,  listening  to  her  with  hands 
folded  upon  his  prayer-book,  felt  that  she  could  not  thua 
''heartily  rejoice,"  meaning  all  the  while  to  darken  his 
whole  life,  as  she  surely  would  if  she  told  him  "  no."  Hie 
was  looking  at  her  now,  and  she  met  his  eyes  at  last,  bat 


300  SUNDAY. 

quickly  dropped  her  own,  while  he  was  sure  that  tin 
roses  burned  a  little  brighter  on  her  cheek,  and  that  hei 
voice  trembled  just  enough  to  give  him  hope,  and  help  him 
in  his  fierce  struggle  to  cast  her  from  his  mind,  and  think 
only  of  the  solemn  services  in  which  he  was  engaging. 
He  could  not  guess  that  the  proud  woman  who  had  sailed 
so  majestically  into  church,  and  followed  so  reverently 
every  prescribed  form,  bowing  in  the  creed  far  lower  than 
ever  bow  was  made  before  in  Hanover,  had  played  him 
false,  and  was  the  dark  shadow  in  his  path. 

That  day  was  a  trying  one  for  Arthur,  for,  just  as  the 
chant  was  ended,  and  the  psalter  was  beginning,  a  hand 
some  carriage  dashed  up  to  the  door,  and  had  he  been 
wholly  blind,  he  would  have  known,  by  the  sudden  sound 
of  turning  heads,  and  the  suppressed  hush  which  ensued, 
that  a  perfect  hailstorm  of  dignity  was  entering  St. 
Mark's. 

It  was  the  Hethertons,  from  Prospect  Hill,  whose  ar 
rival  in  town  had  been  so  long  expected.  There  was  Mrs. 
Hetherton,  who,  more  jiears  ago  than  she  cared  to  re 
member,  was  born  in  Hanover,  but  who  had  lived  most  of 
her  life  either  in  Paris,  New  York,  or  New  Orleans,  and 
wrho  this  year  had  decided  to  fit  up  her  father's  old  place, 
and  honor  it  with  her  presence  for  a  few  weeks  at  least ; 
also,  Fanny  Hetherton,  a  brilliant  brunette,  into  whose 
intensely  black  eyes  no  one  could  loug  look,  they  were  so 
bright,  ao  piercing,  and  seemed  so  thoroughly  to  read  one'* 


8UNDAT.  301 

inmost  thoughts ;  also, .  Colonel  Hetherton,  who  had 
served  in  the  Mexican  war,  and  retiring  on  the  glory  ol 
having  once  led  a  forlorn  hope,  now  spent  his  time  in  act 
ing  as  attendant  on  his  fashionable  wife  and  daughter; 
also,  young  Simon  Bellamy,  who,  while  obedient  to  the 
flashing  of  Miss  Fanny's  black  eyes,  still  found  stolen  op 
portunities  for  glancing  at  the  fifth  and  last  remaining 
member  of  the  party,  filing  up  the  aisle  to  the  large, 
square  pew,  where  old  Judge  Howard  used  to  sit,  and 
which  was  still  owned  by  his  daughter.  Mrs.  Hetherton 
liked  being  late  at  church,  and,  notwithstanding  that  tha 
colonel  had  worked  himself  into  a  tempest  of  excitement, 
had  tied  and  untied  her  bonnet-strings  half  a  dozen  times, 
changed  her  rich  basquine  for  a  thread  lace  mantilla,  and 
then,  just  as  the  bell  from  St.  Mark's  gave  forth  ita 
last  note,  and  her  husband's  impatience  was  oozing  out 
in  sundry  little  oaths,  sworn  under  his  breath,  she  pro 
duced  and  fitted  on  her  fat,  white  hands  a  new  pair  of 
Alexanders,  keeping  herself  as  cool,  and  quiet,  and  lady 
like  as  if  outside  upon  the  gravelled  walk  there  was  no 
wrathful  husband  threatening  to  drive  off  and  leave  her, 
if  she  did  not  "  quit  her  cussed  vanity,  and  come  along." 
Such  was  the  Hetherton  party,  and  they  created  quite 
as  great  a  sensation  as  Mrs.  Hetherton  could  desire,  first 
upon  the  people  nearest  the  door,  who  rented  the  cheaper 
pews ;  then  upon  those  farther  up  the  aisle,  and  then  upoi 
Mrs.  Meredith,  who,  attracted  by  the  rustling  of  heavj 


802  8VNDAY. 

silk  and  the  perfurue  emanating  from  Mrs.  Hetherton*a 
handkerchief,  slightly  turned  her  head  at  first,  and  as  the 
party  swept  by,  stopped  her  reading  entirely,  and  invol 
untarily  started  forward,  while  a  smile  of  pleasure  flitted 
across  her  face  as  Fanny's  black,  saucy  eyes  took  her,  with, 
others,  within  their  range  of  vision,  and  Fanny's  black  head 
nodded  a  quick  nod  of  recognition.  The  Hethertons  and 
Mrs.  Meredith  were  evidently  friends,  and  in  her  wonder 
at  seeing  them  there,  in  stupid  Hanover,  the  great  lady 
forgot  for  a  while  to  read,  but  kept  her  eyes  upon  them  all, 
especially  upon  the  fifth  and  last-mentioned  member  of 
the  party,  the  graceful  little  blonde,  whose  eyes  might 
have  caught  their  hue  from  the  deep  blue  of  the  summer 
sky,  and  whose  long  silken  curls  fell  in  a  golden  shower 
beneath  the  fanciful  French  hat.  She  was  a  beautiful 
young  creature,  and  even  Anna  Ruthven  leaned  forward 
to  look  at  her  as  she  shook  out  her  airy  muslin  and 
dropped  into  her  seat.  For  a  moment  the  little  coquet 
tish  head  bowed  reverently,  but  at  the  first  sound  of  the 
rector's  voice  it  lifted  itself  up  quickly,  and  Anna  saw 
the  bright  color  which  rushed  into  her  cheeks,  and  the 
eager  joy  which  danced  in  the  blue  eyes,  fixed  so  earnestly 
ipon  the  rector,  who,  at  sight  of  her,  started  suddenly, 
and  paused  an  instant  in  his  reading.  Who  was  she,  and 
what  was  she  to  Arthur  Leighton,  Anna  asked  herself, 
while,  by  the  fierce  pang  which  shot  through  her  heart  as 
she  watched  the  stranger  and  the  clergyman,  she  knew 


SUNDAY.  303 

that  she  loved  the  rector  of  St.  Mark's,  even  if  aha  had 
doubted  it  before. 

Anna  was  not  an  ill-tempered  girl,  but  the  sight  ol 
those  gay  city  people  annoyed  her,  and  when,  as  she  sang 
the  Jubilate  Deo,  she  saw  the  soft  blue  orbs  of  the  blonde 
and  the  coal-black  eyes  of  the  brunette  turned  wonder- 
ingly  towards  her,  she  was  conscious  of  returning  their 
glance  with  as  much  of  scorn  as  it  was  possible  for  her  to 
show.  Anna  tried  to  ask  forgiveness  for  that  feeling  in 
the  prayers  which  followed ;  but  when  the  services  were 
over,  and  she  saw  a  little  figure  in  blue  and  white 
flitting  up  the  aisle  to  where  Arthur,  still  in  his  robes, 
stood  waiting  for  her,  an  expression  apon  his  face  which 
she  could  not  define  she  felt  that  she  had  prayed  in  vain; 
and  with  a  bitterness  she  had  never  before  experienced, 
she  watched  the  meeting  between  them,  growing  more  and 
more  bitter  as  she  saw  the  upturned  face,  the  wreathing 
of  the  rose-bud  lips  iato  the  sweetest  of  smiles,  and  the 
tiny  white  hand,  which  Arthur  took  and  held  while  he 
Bpoke  words  she  would  have  given  much  to  hear. 

"  Why  do  I  care  ?  It's  nothing  to  me,"  she  thought, 
and,  with  a  proud  step,  she  was  leaving  the  church,  when 
her  aunt,  who  was  shaking  hands  with  the  HerthertonSi 
ligned  for  her  to  join  her. 

The  blonde  was  now  coming  down  the  aisle  with  Mr. 
Leighton,  and  joined  the  group  just  as  Anna  was  intro 
duced  as  "  My  niece,  Miss  Anna  Ruthven." 


804  SUNDAY. 

"  Oh,  you  are  the  Anna  of  whom  I  have  heard  so  much 
from  Ada  Fuller.  You  were  at  school  together  in  Troy," 
Miss  Fanny  said,  her  searching  eyes  taking  in  every  point 
as  if  she  were  deciding  how  far  her  new  acquaintance  waa 
entitled  to  the  praise  she  had  heard  bestowed  upon  her. 

"  I  knew  Miss  Fuller, — yes ; "  and  Anna  bowed  haugh» 
ily,  turning  next  to  the  blonde,  Miss  Lucy  Harcourt, 
who  was  telling  Colonel  Hetherton  how  she  had  met  Mr. 
Leighton  first  among  the  Alps,  and  afterwards  travelled 
with  him  until  their  party  returned  to  Paris,  where  he  left 
them  for  America. 

"  I  was  never  so  surprised  in  my  life  as  I  was  to  find 
him  here.  Why,  it  actually  took  my  breath  for  a  mo 
ment,"  she  went  on,  "  and  I  greatly  fear  that,  instead  of 
listening  to  his  sermon,  I  have  been  roaming  amid  that 
Alpine  scenery,  and  basking  again  in  the  soft  moonlight 
of  Venice.  I  heard  you  singing,  though,"  she  said,  when 
Anna  was  presented  to  her,  "  and  it  helped  to  keep  up 
the  illusion,  it  was  so  like  the  music  heard  from  a  gon 
dola  that  night  when  Mr.  Leighton  and  myself  made  a 
voyage  through  the  streets  of  Venice.  Oh,  it  was  so 
beautiful,"  and  the  blue  eyes  turned  to  Mr.  Leighton  for 
confirmation  of  what  the  lips  had  uttered. 

"  Which  was  beautiful  ? — Miss  Ruthven's  singing  or 
that  moonlight  night  in  Venice  ?  "  young  Bellamy  asked, 
•nailing  dawn  upon  the  little  lady,  who  still  L.eld  Anna'f 
hand,  and  who  laughingly  replied  : 


SUNDAY.  305 

*'  Both,  of  course,  though  the  singing  is  just  now  fresh 
est  in  my  memory,  I  liked  it  so  much.  You  must  hava 
had  splendid  teachers,"  and  she  turned  again  to  Annaj 
whose  face  was  suffused  with  blushes  as  she  met  the  reo 
tor's  eyes,  for  to  his  suggestions  and  criticisms  and  teach 
ings  she  owed  much  of  that  cultivation  which  had  sc 
pleased  and  surprised  the  stranger. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  see  it  was  Arthur.  He.tried  to  train  me 
once,  and  told  me  I  had  a  squeak  in  my  voice.  Don't 
you  remember  ? — those  frightfully  rainy  days  in  Rome  ?  " 
Miss  Harcourt  said,  the  Arthur  dropping  from  her  lips 
as  readily  as  if  they  had  always  been  accustomed  to  speak 
it. 

She  was  a  talkative,  coquettish  little  lady,  but  there 
was  something  about  her  so  genuine  and  cordial,  that 
Anna  felt  the  ice  thawing  around  her  heart,  and  even  re 
turned  the  pressure  of  the  fingers  which  had  twined  them 
selves  around  her,  as  Lucy  rattled  on  until  the  whole 
party  left  the  church.  It  had  been  decided  that  Mrs. 
Meredith  should  call  at  Prospect  Hill  as  early  as  Tues 
day,  at  least ;  and,  still  holding  Anna's  hand,  Miss  Har 
court  whispered  to  her  the  pleasure  it  would  be  to  see  he* 
again. 

"  I  know  I  am  going  to  like  you.  I  can  tell  directly  I 
see  a  person, — can't  I,  Arthur?  "  and  kissing  her  hand 
to  Mrs.  Meredith,  Anna,  and  the  rector,  too,  she  sprang 
in  to  the  carriage,  and  was  whirled  rapidly  away. 


806  SUNDAY. 

"  Who  is  she ?  "  Anna  asked,  and  Mr.  Leightcn  » 
plied : 

"  She  is  an  orphan  niece  of  Colonel  Hotherton's  and  a 
great  heiress,  I  believe,  though  I  never  paid  much  atten 
tion  to  the  absurd  stories  told  concerning  her  wealth." 

"  You  met  in  Europe,"  Mrs.  Meredith  said,  and  he  re 
plied  : 

"Yes,  she  has  been  quite  an  invalid,  and  has  spent 
four  years  abroad,  where  I  accidently  met  her.  It  was  a 
very  pleasant  party,  and  I  was  induced  to  join  it,  though 
I  was  with  them  in  all  not  more  than  four  months." 

He  told  this  very  rapidly,  and  an  acute  observer  would 

v- 

have  seen  that  he  did  not  care  particularly  to  talk  of 
Lucy  Harcourt,  with  Anna  for  an  auditor.  She  was 
walking  very  demurely  at  his  side,  pondering  in  her  mind 
the  circumstances  which  could  have  brought  the  rector 
and  Lucy  Harcourt  in'  such  familiar  relations  as  to  warrant 
her  calling  him  Arthur,  and  appearing  so  delighted  to  see 
him. 

"  Can  it  be  there  was  anything  between  them  ?  "  she 
thought,  and  her  heart  began  to  harden  against  ttte  inno 
cent  Lucy,  at  that  very  moment  chatting  so  pleasantly 
of  her  and  of  Arthur,  too,  replying  to  Mrs.  Hetherton, 
who  suggested  that  Mr.  Leighton  would  be  more  appro 
priate  for  a  clergyman : 

"  I  shall  say  Arthur,  for  he  told  me  I  might  when  we 
were  in  Rome.  I  could  not  like  hijn  as  well  if  I  called 


SUNDAY.  307 

him   Hi.  Tjeighton.      Isn't  he   splendid  though   in   his 
gowiv,.  *nd  wasn't  his  sermon  grand  ?  " 

"  What  v.ts  thri  text?"  asked  Mr.  Bellamy  mischiev 
ously,  and  \r\^h.  a  toss  of  her  golden  carls  and  a  merry 
twinkle  of  he*  3yesi>  Lucy  replied,  "  Simon,  Simon,  lovest 
thou  me  ?  " 

Quick  as  a  fltwh  of  lightning  the  hot  hlood  mounted  to 
his  face,  while  Vanny  cast  upon  him  a  searching  glance 
as  if  she  woukl  read  him  through.  Fanny  Hetherton 
woiild  have  given  much  to  know  the  answer  which 
Mr.  Simon  Bellamy  mentally  gave  to  that  question,  put 
by  one  whom  he  had  known  but  little  more  than  three 
months.  It  was  not  fair  for  Lucy  to  steal  away  all  Fan 
ny's  beaux,  as  she  surely  had  been  doing  ever  since  her 
feet  touched  the  soil  of  the  New  World,  and  truth  to  tell 
Fanny  had  borne  it  very  well,  until  young  Mr.  Bellamy 
showed  signs  of  desertion.  Then  the  spirit  of  resistance 
was  roused,  and  she  watched  her  lover  narrowly,  gnashing 
her  teeth  sometimes  when  she  saw  his  ill-concealed  ad 
miration  for  her  sprightly  little  cousin,  who  could  say  and 
>,nd  do  with  perfect  impunity  so  many  things  which  in 
another  would  have  been  improper  to  the  last  degree. 
She  was  a  tolerably  correct  reader  of  human  nature,  and 
from  the  moment  she  witnessed  the  meeting  between 
Lucy  and  the  rector  of  St.  Mark's  she  took  courage,  for 
she  readily  guessed  the  channel  in  which  her  cousin's  pref 
erence  ran.  The  rector,  however,  she  could  not  read  80 


808  SUNDAY. 

well  j  but  few  men  she  knew  could  withstand  the  fascina 
tions  of  her  cousin,  backed  as  they  were  by  the  glamoui 
of  half  a  million  ;  and  though  her  mother,  and  possibly 
her  father  too,  would  be  shocked  at  the  mesalliance  and 
throw  obstacles  in  its  way,  she  was  capable  of  removing 
them  all,  and  she  would  do  it,  too,  sooner  than  lose  the  only 
man  she  had  ever  cared  for.  These  were  Fanny's  thoughts 
as  she  rode  home  from  church  that  Sunday  afternoon,  and 
by  the  time  Prospect  Hill  was  reached  Lucy  Harcourt 
could  not  have  desired  a  more  powerful  ally  than  she  poa- 
in  the  person  of  her  resolute,  strong-willed  cousia, 


CHAPTEK  TV. 

BLUE   MONDAY. 

j|T  was  to  all  intents  and  purposes  "  blue  Mon 
day  "  with  the  rector  of  St.  Mark's,  for  aside 
from  the  weariness  and  exhaustion  which  al 
ways  followed  his  two  services  on  Sunday,  and  his  care 
of  the  Sunday-school,  there  was  a  feeling  of  disquiet  and 
depression,  occasioned  partly  by  that  rencontre  with 
pretty  Lucy  Harcourt,  and  partly  by  the  uncertainty  aa 
to  what  Anna's  answer  might  be.  He  had  seen  the  look 
of  displeasure  on  her  face  as  she  stood  watching  him  and 
Lucy,  and  though  to  many  this  would  have  given  hope, 
it  only  added  to  his  nervous  fears  lest  his  suit  should  be 
denied.  He  was  sorry  that  Lucy  Harcourt  was  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  sorrier  still  for  her  tenacious  memory, 
which  had  evidently  treasured  up  every  incident  which 

he  could  wish  forgotten.     With  Anna  Ruthven  absorb- 

*»•« 
ing  every  thought  and  feeling  of  his  heart,  it  was  not 

pleasant  to  remember  what  had  been  a  genuine  flirtation 
between  himself  and  the  sparkling  belle  he  had  met 
among  the  Alps. 


810  BLUE  MONDAY. 

It  was  nothing  but  a  flirtation  he  knew,  for  in  his  in 
most  sold  he  absolved  himself  from  ever  having  had  • 
thought  of  matrimony  connected  with  Lucy  llarcoutt 
He  had  admired  her  greatly  and  loved  to  Tvandcr  with 
her  amid  the  Alpine  scenery,  listening  to  her  wild  bursts 
of  enthusiasm,  and  watching  the  kindling  light  in  her 
blue  eyes,  and  the  color  coming  to  her  thin,  pale  cheeks, 
as  she  gazed  upon  some  scene  of  grandeur,  and  clung 
close  to  him  as  for  protection,  when  the  path  was  fraught 
with  peril. 

Afterwards  in  Venice,  beneath  the  influence  of  those 
glorious  moonlight  nights,  he  had  been  conscious  of  a 
deeper  feeling,  which,  had  he  tarried  longer  at  the  syren's 
side,  might  have  ripened  into  love.  But  he  left  her  just 
in  time  to  escape  what  he  feli  would  have  been  a  most 
unfortunate  affair  for  him,  for  sweet  and  beautiful  as  she 
was,  Lucy  was  not  the  wife  for  a  clergyman  to  choose. 
She  was  not  like  Anna  Ruthven,  whom  both  young  and 
old  had  said  was  so  suitable  for  him. 

"  And  just  because  she  is  suitable,  I  may  not  win  her, 
perhaps,"  he  thought,  as  he  paced  up  and  down  his 
library,  wondering  when  she  would  answer  his  letter,  and 
wondering  next  how  he  could  persuade  Lucy  Harcourt 
that  between  the  young  theological  student,  sailing  in  a 
gondola  through  the  streets  of  Venice,  and  the  rector  of 
St.  Mark's,  there  was  a  vast  difference ;  that  while  the 
former  might  be  Arthur  "vith  perfect  propriety,  th« 


BLUE  MOXVA7.  311 

latter  should  be  Mr.  Leighton,  in  Anna's  presence,  at 
least. 

And  yet  the  rector  of  St.  Mark's  was  conscious  of  a 
pleasurable  emotion,  even  now,  as  he  recalled  the  time 
when  she  had,  at  his  request,  first  called  him  Arthur,  her 
bird  like  voice  hesitating  just  a  little,  and  her  soft  eyes 
looking  coyly  up  to  him,  as  she  said : 

"  I  am  afraid  that  Arthur  is  hardly  the  name  by  which 
to  call  a  clergyman." 

"  I  am  not  in  orders  yet,  so  let  me  be  Arthur  to  you. 
I  love  to  hear  you  call  me  so,  and  you  to  me  shall  be 
Lucy,"  was  his  reply. 

A  mutual  clasp  of  hands  had  sealed  the  compact,  and 
that  was  the  nearest  to  a  love-making  of  anything  which 
had  passed  between  them,  if  we  except  the  time  when  he 
had  said  good-by,  and  wiped  away  the  tear  which  came 
unbidden  to  her  eye  as  she  told  him  how  lonely  she 
should  be  without  him. 

Hers  was  a  nature  as  transparent  as  glass,  and  the 
young  man,  who  for  days  had  paced  the  ship's  deck  so 
moodily,  was  fighting  back  the  thoughts  which  whispered 
that  in  his  intercourse  with  her  he  had  not  been  all 
guileless,  and  that  if  in  her  girlish  heart  there  was  feel 
ing  for  him  stronger  than  that  of  friendship,  he  had 
helped  to  give  it  life. 

Time  and  absence  and  Anna  Ruthven  had  obliterated 
all  Buzh  thoughts  till  now,  when  Lucy  herself  had 


312  BLUE  MONDAY. 

brought  them  back  again  with  her  winsome  ways,  and 
her  evident  intention  to  begin  just  where  they  had  left 
off. 

"  Let  Anna  tell  me  yes,  and  I  will  at  once  proclaim 
Our  engagement,  which  will  relieve  me  from  all  em 
barrassments  in  that  quarter,"  the  clergymen  was  think 
ing,  just  as  his  housekeeper  came  up,  bringing  him 
two  notes,  one  in  a  strange  handwriting,  and  the  other  in 
the  graceful  running  hand  which  he  recognized  as  Lucy 
Harcourt's. 

This  he  opened  first,  reading  as  follows : 

"  PKOSPECT  HILL,  June  — ." 

"Ms.  LEIGHTON. — DEAR  SIR: — Cousin  Fanny  is  to 
have  a  picnic  down  in  the  west  woods  to-morrow  after 
noon,  and  she  requests  the  pleasure  of  your  presence. 
Mrs.  Meredith  and  Miss  Ruthven  are  to  be  invited.  Do 
come.  "  Yours  truly, 

"Lucr." 

Yes,  he  would  go,  and  if  Anna's  answer  did  not  come 
before,  he  would  ask  her  for  it.  There  would  be  plenty 
of  opportunities  down  in  those  deep  woods.  On  the 
whole,  it  would  be  pleasanter  to  hear  the  words  from  her 
own  lips,  and  see  the  blushes  on  her  cheeks  when  he 
tried  to  look  into  her  eyes. 

The  imaginative  rector  could  almost  see  those  eyes, 


BLUE  MONDAY.  313 

and  feel  the  touch  of  her  hand  as  he  took  the  other  note, 
which  Mrs.  Meredith  had  shut  herself  in  her  room  to 
write,  and  se"hi  slyly  by  Valencia,  who  was  to  tell  no  one 
where  she  had  been. 

A  gleam  of  intelligence  had  shone  in  Valencia's  eyes 
as  she  took  the  note  and  carried  it  safely  to  the  parson 
age,  never,  yielding  to  the  temptation  to  read  it  as  she 
had  read  the  one  found  in  her  mistress's  pocket,  while 
the  family  were  at  church. 

Mrs.  Meredith's  note  was  as  follows : 

'*  MY  DEAR  MR.  LEIGHTON  : — It  is  my  niece's  wish 
that  I  answer  the  letter  you  were  so  kind  as  to  enclose 
in  the  book  left  for  her  last  Saturday.  She  desires  me 
to  say  that  though  she  has  a  very  great  regard  for  you  a& 
her  clergyman  and  friend,  she  cannot  be  yoxir  wife,  and 
she  regrets  'exceedingly  if  she  has  in  any  way  led  you  to 
construe  the  interest  she  has  always  manifested  in  you 
into  a  deeper  feeling. 

"  She  begs  me  to  say  that  it  gives  her  great  pain  to  re 
fuse  one  as  noble  and  good  as  she  knows  you  to  be,  and 
she  only  does  it  because  she  cannot  find  in  her  heart  the 
love  without  which  no  marriage  can  be  happy. 

"  She  is  really  very  wretched  about  it,  because  she 
fears  she  may  lose  your  friendship,  which  she  prizes  so 
much ;  and,  as  a  proof  that  she  will  not,  she  asks  that  the 
subject  may  never,  in  any  way,  be  alluded  to  ;  that  when 

j«u  meet  it  may  be  exactly  as  heretofore,  without  a  word 
14 


314  SLUE  MONDAY. 

or  sign  on  your  part  that  you  ever  offeied  her  the  high' 
•at  honor  a  man  can  offer  a  woman. 

"  And  I  am  sure,  my  dear  Mr.  Leighton,  that  you  will 
accede  to  her  wishes.  I  am  very  sorry  it  has  occurred, 
Borry  for  you  both,  and  especially  sorry  for  you ;  but  be 
lieve  me,  you  will  get  over  it  in  time,  and  come  to  see 
that  my  niece  is  not  a  proper  person  to  be  a  clergyman's 
wife. 

"  Come  and  see  us  as  usual.  You  will  find  Anna  ap 
pearing  very  natural. 

" Yours  cordially  and  sincerely, 

"  JULIE  MEREDITH." 

This  was  the  letter  which  the  cruel  woman  tad 
written,  and  it  dropped  from  the  rector's  fingers,  as., 
with  a  groan,  he  bent  his  head  upon  the  back  of  a  chair, 
and  tried  to  realize  the  magnitude  of  the  blow  which  had 
fallen  so  suddenly  upon  him.  Not  till  now  did  he  real 
ize  how,  amid  all  his  doubts,  he  had  still  been  sure  of 
winning  her,  and  the  shock  was  terrible. 

He  had  staked  his  all  on  Anna,  and  lost  it ;  the  world, 
which  before  had  been  so  bright,  looked  very  dreary  now, 
while  he  felt  that  he  could  never  again  come  before  his 
people  weighed  down  with  so  great  a  load  of  pain  and 
humiliation  ;  for  it  touched  the  young  man's  pride  that, 
not  content  to  refuse  him,  Anna  had  chosen  another  than 
herself  as  the  medium  through  which  her  refusal  must  be 


BLUE  MONDAY.  315 

conveyed  to  him.  He  did  not  fancy  Mrs.  Meredith. 
He  would  rather  she  did  not  possess  his  secret,  and  it 
hurt  him  to  know  that  she  did. 

It  was  a  bitter  hour  for  the  clergyman,  for  strong  and 
clear  as  was  his  faith  in  God,  he  lost  sight  of  it  for  a  time, 
and  poor,  weak  human  nature  cried  : 

"  It's  more  than  I  can  bear." 

But  as  the  mother  does  not  forget  her  child,  even 
though  she  passes  from  its  sight,  so  God  had  not  for 
gotten,  and  the  darkness  broke  at  last  and  the  lips  could 
pray  again  for  strength  to  bear  and  faith  to  do  all  that 
God  might  require. 

"  Though  He  slay  me  I  will  trust  Him,"  came  like  a 
ray  of  sunlight  into  the  rector's  mind  ;  and  ere  the  day  was 
over  he  could  say  with  a  full  heart,  "  Thy  will  be  done." 

He  was  very  pale,  and  his  lip  quivered  occasionally  as 
he  thought  of  all  he  had  lost,  while  a  blinding  headache, 
induced  by  strong  excitement,  drove  him  nearly  wild 
with  pain.  He  had  been  subject  to  headaches  all  his  life, 
but  he  had  never  suffered  as  he  was  suffering  now  but 
once,  and  that  on  a  rainy  day  in  Rome,  when,  boasting  of 
her  mesmeric  power,  Lucy  had  stood  by  him,  and 
passed  her  hands  soothingly  across  his  throbbing  temples. 

How  soft  and  cool  they  were, — but  they  had  not 
thrilled  him  as  the  touch  of  Anna's  did  when  they  hung 
the  Christmas  wreaths  and  she  wore  that  bunch  of  scar 
let  berries  in  her  hair. 


316  BLUE  MONDAY. 

Toafc  time  seemed  very  far  away,  farther  even  thaa 
Rome  and  the  moonlight  nights  of  Venice.  He  did  not 
like  to  think  of  it,  for  the  bright  hopes  wMch  were  bud- 
ding  then  were  blighted  now,  and  dead  ;  and  with  a  moan, 
he  laid  his  aching  head  upon  his  pillow,  and  tried  to  for 
get  all  he  had  ever  hoped  or  longed  for  in  the  future. 

"  She  will  marry  Thornton  Hastings.  He  is  a  more 
eligible  match  than  a  poor  clergyman,"  he  said,  and  then, 
as  he  remembered  Thornton's  letter,  and  that  his  man 
Thomas  would  be  coming  soon  to  ask  if  there  were  letters 
to  be  taken  to  the  office,  he  arose,  and  going  to  the  study 
table,  wrote  hastily : 

"  DEAR  THORNE  :— ^=-1  am  suffering  from  one  of  those 
norrid  headaches  which  used  to  make  me  as  weak  and 
helpless  as  a  woman,  but  I  will  write  just  enough  to  say 
that  I  have  no  claim  on  Anna  Ruthven,  and  you  are  free 
to  press  your  suit  as  urgently  as  you  please.  She  is  a 
noble  girl,  worthy  even  to  be  Mrs.  Thornton  Hastings, 
and  if  I  cannot  have  her,  I  would  rather  give  her  to  you 
than  any  one  I  know.  Only  don't  ask  me  to  perform  the 
ceremony. 

"  There,  I've  let  the  secret  out,  but  no  matter,  I  have 
al  ways  confided  in  you,  vnd  so  I  may  as  well  confess  that 
I  have  offered  myself  and  been  refused. 
"  Yours  truly, 

"  ARTHUR  LEIGHTOK." 


BLUE  MONDAY.  317 

The  rector  felt  better  after  that  letter  was  written. 
He  had  told  his  grievance  to  some  one,  and  it  seemed  to 
have  lightened  half  the  load. 

"  Thome  is  a  good  fellow,"  be  said,  as  he  directed  the 
letter.  "  A  little  fast,  it's  true,  but  a  splendid  fellow 
after  all.  He  will  sympathize  with  me  in  his  way,  and  I 
would  rather  give  Anna  to  him  than  any  other  living 
man." 

Arthur  was  serious  in  what  he  said,  for,  wholly  unlike 
as  they  were,  there  was  between  him  and  Thornton  Hast 
ings  one  of  those  strong  friendships  which  sometimes 
exist  between  two  men,  but  rarely  between  two  women, 
of  so  widely  different  temperaments.  They  had  roomed 
together  four  years  in  college,  and  countless  were  the 
difficulties  from  which  the  sober  Arthur  had  extricated 
the  luckless  Thome,  while  many  a  time  the  rather  slender 
means  of  Arthur  had  been  increased  in  a  way  so  delicate 
that  expostulation  was  next  to  impossible. 

Arthur  was  better  off  now  in  worldly  goods,  for  by  the 
death  of  an  uncle  he  had  come  in  possession  of  a  few 
thousand  dollars,  which  had  enabled  him  to  travel  in 
Europe  for  a  year,  and  left  a  surplus,  from  which  he  fed 
the  poor  and  needy  with  no  sparing  hand 

St.  Mark's  was  his  first  parish,  and  though  he  could 
have  chosen  one  nearer  to  New  York,  where  the  society 
was  more  congenial  to  his  taste,  he  had  accepted  of  vkat 
God  offered  to  him,  and  had  been  very  happy  there  since 


318  BLUE  MONDAY. 

Anna  Ruthven  c*me  home  from  Troy  and  made  suet 
havoc  with  his  he  trt.  He  did  not  believe  he  should  ever 
be  quite  so  happy  again,  but  he  would  try.  to  do  his  M  ork, 
and  take  thankfully  whatever  of  good  might  come  to  him. 
This  was  his  final  decision,  and  when  at  last  he  laid 
down  to  rest,  the  wound,  though  deep  and  sore,  and 
bleeding  yet,  was  not  quite  as  hard  to  bear  as  it  had  been 
earlier  in  the  «*ay,  when  it  was  fresh  and  raw,  and  faitb 
*&d  hope  seen?  *d  swept  away. 


CHAPTER  V. 

TUESDAY. 

JJHAT  open  grassy  spot  in  the  dense  shadow  of 
the  west  woods  was  just  the  place  for  a  picnict 
and  it  looked  very  bright  and  pleasant  that 
warm  June  afternoon,  with  the  rustic  table  so  fancifully 
arranged,  the  camp-stools  scattered  over  the  lawn,  and 
the  bouquets  of  flowers  depending  from  the  trees. 

Fanny  Hetherton  had  given  it  her  whole  care,  aided 
and  abetted  by  Mr.  Bellamy,  what  time  he  could  spare 
from  Lucy,  who,  endued  with  a  mortal  fear  of  insects, 
seemed  this  day  to  gather  scores  of  bugs  and  worms  upon 
her  dress  and  hair,  screaming  with  every  worm,  and 
bringing  Simon  obediently  to  her  aid. 

"  I'd  stay  at  home,  I  think,  if  I  was  silly  enough  to  be 
afraid  of  a  harmless  caterpillar  like  that,"  Fanny  had  said, 
as  with  her  own  hands  she  took  from  Lucy's  curls  and 
threw  away  a  thousand- legged  thing,  the  very  sight  of 
which  made  poor  Lucy  shiver,  hut  did  not  send  her  to 
the  house. 

She  was  too  much  interested  and  too  eagerly  expectant 
of  what  the  afternoon  would  bring,  and  so  she  perched 


320  TUESDAY. 

herself  upon  the  fence  where  nothing  but  ants  could  mo 
lest  her,  and  finished  the  bouquets  which  Fanny  hung 
upon  the  trees  until  the  lower  limbs  seemed  one  must 
of  blossoms  and  the  air  was  filled  with  the  sweet  per 
fume. 

Lucy  was  bewitchingly  beautiful  that  afternoon  in  her 
dress  of  white,  with  her  curls  tied  up  with  a  blue  ribbon, 
end  her  fair  arms  bare  nearly  to  the  shoulders.  Fanny, 
whose  arms  were  neither  plump  nor  white,  had  expostu 
lated  with  her  cousin  upon  this  style  of  dress,  suggesting 
that  one  as  delicate  as  she  could  not  foil  to  take  a  heavy 
cold  when  the  dews  began  to  fall ;  but  Lucy  would  not 
listen.  Arthur  Leighton  had  told  her  once  that  he  liked 
her  with  bare  arms,  and  bare  they  should  be.  She  was 
bending  every  energy  to  please  and  captivate  him,  and  a 
cold  was  of  no  consequence  provided  she  succeeded.  So 
like  some  little  fairy,  she  danced  and  flitted  about,  making 
fearful  havoc  with  Mr.  Bellamy's  wits,  and  greatly  vex 
ing  Fanny,  who  hailed  with  delight  the  arrival  of  Mrs. 
Meredith  and  Anna.  The  latter  was  very  pretty  and 
very  becomingly  attired  in  a  light,  airy  dress  of  blue, 
finished  at  the  throat  and  wrists  with  an  edge  of  soft,  fine 
lace.  She,  too,  had  thought  of  Arthur  in  the  making  of 
her  toilet,  and  it  was  for  him  that  the  white  rose-buds 
were  placed  in  her  heavy  braids  of  hair,  and  fastened  on 
her  belt.  She  was  very  sorry  that  she  had  allowed  her 
•elf  to  be  vexed  with  Lucy  Harcourt  for  her  familiarity 


TUESDAY.  321 

with  Mr.  Leighton,  very  hopeful  that  he  had  not  observed 
it,  and  very  certain  now  of  his  preference  for  herself 
She  would  be  very  gracious  that  afternoon,  she  thought, 
and  not  one  bit  jealous  of  Lucy,  though  she  called  him 
Arthur  a  hundred  times. 

Thus  it  was  in  the  most  amiable  of  moods  that  Anna 
appeared  upon  the  lawn,  where  she  was  warmly  welcomed 
by  Lucy,  who,  seizing  both  her  hands,  led  her  away  to  see 
their  arrangements,  chatting  gayly  all  the  time,  and  cast 
ing  rapid  glances  up  the  lane  as  if  in  quest  of  some 
one. 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  come.  I've  thought  of  you  so 
much.  Do  you  know  it  seems  to  me  there  must  be  some 
bond  of  sympathy  between  us,  or  I  should  not  like  you  so 
well  at  once.  I  drove  by  the  rectory  early  this  morning, 
the  dearest  little  place,  with  such  a  lovely  garden.  Ar 
thur  was  working  in  it,  and  I  made  him  give  me  some 
roses.  See,  I  have  one  in  my  curls.  Then,  when  he 
brought  them  to  the  carriage,  I  kept  him  there  while  I 
asked  numberless  questions  about  you,  and  heard  from 
him  just  how  good  you  are,  and^how  you  help  him  in  the 
Sunday-school  and  everywhere,  visiting  the  poor,  picking 
up  ragged  children,  and  doing  things  I  never  thought  ol 
doing ;  but  I  am  not  going  to  be  so  useless  any  longer, 
and  the  next  time  you  visit  some  of  the  very  miserablestg 
I  want  you  to  take  me  with  you. 

"  Do  you  ever  meet  Arthur  there  ?      Oh,   here  hi 
14* 


822  TUESDAY. 

comes,"  and  with  a  bound,  Lucy  darted  away  from  Anna 
towards  the  spot  where  the  rector  stood  receiving  Mrs. 
and  Miss  Hetherton's  greeting. 

As  Lucy  had  said,  she  had  driven  by  the  rectory,  with 
no  earthly  object  but  the  hope  of  seeing  the  rector,  and 
had  hurt  him  cruelly  with  her  questionings  of  Anna,  and 
annoyed  him  a  little  with  her  anxious  inquiries  as  to  the 
cause  of  his  pallid  face  and  sunken  eyes ;  but  she  was  so 
bewitchingly  pretty,  and  so  thoroughly  kind  withal,  that 
he  could  not  be  annoyed  long,  and  he  felt  better  for  hav 
ing  seen  her  bright,  coquettish  face,  and  listened  to  her 
childish  prattle.  It  was  a  great  trial  for  him  to  attend 

the  picnic  that  afternoon,  but  he  met  it  bravely,  and 

, 
schooled  himself  to  appear  as  if  there  were  no  such  things 

in  the  world  as  aching  hearts  and  cruel  disappointments. 
His  face  was  very  pale,  but  his  recent  headache  would 
account  for  that,  and  he  acted  his  part  successfully,  shiv 
ering  a  little,  it  is  true,  when  Anna  expressed  her  sorrow 
that  he  should  suffer  so  often  from  these  attacks,  and 
suggested  that  he  take  a  short  vacation  and  go  with  them 
to  Saratoga. 

"  I  should  so  much  like  to  have  you,"  she  said,  and  her 
clear  honest  eyes  looked  him  straight  in  the  face,  as  she 
asked  why  he  could  not. 

"  What  does  she  mean  ?  "  the  rector  thought.  "  Is  she 
trying  to  tantalize  me  ?  I  expected  her  to  be  nativral,  as 
her  aunt  laid  great  stress  on  that,  but  she  need  not  overdo 


TUESDAY.  323 

the  matter  by  showing  me  how  little  she  cares  for  having 
hurt  me  so." 

Then,  as  a  flash  of  pride  came  to  his  aid,  he  thought, 
'*  I  will  at  least  be  even  with  her.  She  shall  not  have 
the  satisfaction  of  guessing  how  much  I  suffer,"  and  aa 
Lucy  then  called  to  him  from  the  opposite  side  of  the 
lawn,  he  asked  Anna  to  accompany  him  thither,  just  as 
he  would  have  done  a  week  before.  Once  that  afternoon 
he  found  himself  alone  with  her  in  a  quiet  part  of  the 
woods,  where  the  long  branches  of  a  great  oak  came 
nearly  to  the  ground,  and  formed  a  little  bower  which 
looked  so  inviting  that  Anna  sat  down  upon  the  gnarled 
roots  of  the  tree,  and  tossing  her  hat  upon  the  grass,  ex 
claimed,  "  How  nice  and  pleasant  it  is  in  here.  Come 
sit  clown,  too,  while  I  tell  you  again  about  my  class  in 
Sunday-school,  and  that  poor  Mrs.  Hobbs  across  the  mill- 
stream.  You  won't  forget  her,  will  you  ?  I  told  her 
you  would  visit  her  the  oftener  when  I  was  gone.  Do 
you  know  she  cried  because  I  was  going  ?  It  made  me 
feel  so  badly  that  I  doubted  if  it  was  right  for  me  to  go," 
and  pulling  down  a  handful  of  the  oak-leaves  above  her 
head,  Anna  began  weaving  achaplet,  while  the  rector  stood 
watching  her  with  a  puzzled  expression  upon  his  face. 
She  did  not  act  as  if  she  ever  could  have  dictated  that  let 
ter,  but  he  had  no  suspicion  of  the  truth,  and  answered 
rather  coldly,  "  I  did  not  suppose  you  cared  how  much 
we  might  miss  you  at  home." 


824  TUESDAY. 

Something  in  his  tone  made  Anna  look  up  into  hit 
face,  and  her  eyes  immediately  filled  with  tears,  for  she 
knew  that  in  some  way  she  had  displeased  him. 

"  Then  you  mistake  me,"  she  replied,  the  tears  Btill 
glittering  on  her  long  eyelashes,  and  her  fingers  trembling 
among  the  oaken  leaves.  "  I  do  care  whether  I  am 
missed  or  not." 

"  Missed  by  whom  ?  "  the  rector  asked,  and  Anna  im 
petuously  replied,  "  Missed  by  the  parish  poor,  and  by 
you,  too,  Mr.  Leighton.  You  don't  know  how  often  I 
shall  think  of  you,  or  how  sorry  I  am  that — " 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  the  rector  hajl 
leaped  madly  at  a  conclusion,  and  was  down  in  the  grass 
at  her  side  with  both  her  hands  in  his. 

"  Anna,  O  Anna,"  he  began  so  pleadingly,  "  have  you 
repented  of  your  decision  ?  Tell  me  that  you  have  and  it 
will  make  me  so  happy.  I  have  been  so  wretched  evei 
since." 

She  thought  he  meant  her  decision  about  going  to  Sar 
atoga,  and  she  replied,  "  I  have  not  repented,  Mr.  Leigh- 
ton.  Aunt  Meredith  thinks  it's  best,  and  so  do  I,  though 
I  am  sorry  for  you,  if  you  really  do  care  so  much." 

Anna  was  talking  blindly,  her  thoughts  upon  one  sub 
ject,  while  the  rector's  were  upon  another,  and  matters 
were  getting  somewhat  mixed  when,  "Arthur,  Arthur, 
where  are  you  ?  "  came  ringing  through  the  woods,  and 
Lucy  Harcourt  appeared,  telling  them  that  the  refresh- 


TUESDAY.  325 

ments  were  ready.  "  We  are  only  waiting  for  you  two, 
wondering  where  you  had  gone,  but  never  dreaming  thai 
you  had  stolen  away  to  make  love,"  she  said  playfully, 
adding  more  earnestly  as  she  saw  the  traces  of  agitation 
visible  in  Anna's  face,  "  and  I  do  believe  you  were.  li 
BO,  I  beg  pardon  for  my  intrusion." 

She  spoke  a  little  sharply,  and  glanced  inquiringly  at 
Mr.  Leighton,  who,  feeling  that  he  had  virtually  been 
repulsed  a  second  time  by  Anna,  answered  her,  "  On  the 
contrary,  I  am  very  glad  you  came,  and  so  I  am  sure  i» 
Miss  Anna.  I  am  ready  to  join  you  at  the  table.  Come, 
Anna,  they  are  waiting,"  and  he  offered  his  arm  to  the 
bewildered  girl,  who  replied,  "Not  just  now,  please 
Leave  me  for  a  moment.  I  won't  be  long." 

Very  curiously  Lucy  looked  at  Anna,  and  then  at  Mr. 
Leighton,  who,  fully  appreciating  the  feelings  of  the  latter, 
said,  by  way  of  explanation,  "  You  see  she  has  not  quite 
finished  that  chaplet  which  I  suspect  is  intended  for  you. 
I  think  we  had  better  leave  her,"  and  drawing  Lucy's 
arm  under  his  own,  he  walked  away,  leaving  Anna  more 
stunned  and  pained  than  she  had  ever  been  before. 
Surely  if  love  had  ever  spoken  in  voice  and  manner,  it 
had  spoken  when  Mr.  Leighton  was  kneeling  on  the  grass, 
holding  her  hands  in  his.  "  Anna,  O  Anna ;  "  how  she 
had  thrilled  at  the  sound  of  those  words  and  waited  foi 
what  might  follow  next.  Why  had  his  manner  changed 
•o  suddeuly,  and  why  had  he  been  so  glad  to  be  inter* 


326  TUESDAY. 

rupted.  Had  he  really  no  intention  of  making  love  to 
her  ;  and  if  so,  why  did  he  rouse  her  hopes  so  suddenly 
and  then  cruelly  dash  them  to  the  ground  ?  Was  it  that 
he  loved  Lucy  best,  and  that  the  sight  of  her  froze  the 
words  upon  his  lips  ? 

"  Let  aim  take  her,  then.  He  is  welcome  for  all  of 
me,"  she  thought ;  and  as  a  keen  pang  of  shame  and  dis 
appointment  swept  over  her,  she  laid  her  head  for  a  mo 
ment  upon  the  grass  and  wept  bitterly.  "  He  must  have 
seen  what  I  expected,  and  I  care  most  for  that,"  she 
sobbed,  resolving  henceforth  to  guard  herself  at  every 
point,  and  do  all  that  lay  in  her  power  to  further  Lucy'a 
interests.  "  He  will  thus  see  how  little  I  really  care," 
she  said,  and  lifting  up  her  head  she  tore  in  fragments 
the  wreath  she  had  been  making  but  which  she  could 
not  now  place  on  the  head  of  her  rival. 

Mr.  Leighton  was  flirting  terribly  with  Lucy  when  she 
joined  the  party  assembled  around  the  table,  and  he  never 
once  looked  at  Anna,  though  he  saw  that  her  plate  was 
well  supplied  with  the  best  of  everything,  and  when  at 
one  draught  she  drained  her  glass  of  ice-water,  he  quietly 
placed  another  within  her  reach,  standing  a  little  before 
her  and  trying  evidently  to  shield  her  from  too  critical 
observation.  There  were  two  at  least  who  were  glad 
when  the  picnic  was  over,  and  various  were  the  private 
opinions  of  the  company  with  regard  to  the  entertain 
ment,  Mr.  Bellamy,  who  had  been  repeatedly  foiled  in 


TUESDAY.  327 

his  attempts  to  be  especially  attentive  to  Lucy  Harcourt, 
pronounced  the  whole  thing  "  a  bore,"  Fanny,  who  had 
been  highly  displeased  with  his  deportment,  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  enjoyment  did  not  compensate  for  all 
the  trouble ;  and  while  the  rector  thought  he  had  never 
spent  a  more  thoroughly  wretched  day,  and  Anna  would 
have  given  worlds  if  she  had  stayed  at  home,  Lucy  de 
clared  that  never  in  her  life  had  she  had  so  perfectly  de 
lightful  a  time,  always  excepting,  of  course, l<  that  moo» 
light  sail  in  Venice." 


CHAPTER  Vi. 

WEDNESDAY. 

|  HERE  was  a  heavy  shower  the  night  succeeding 
the  picnic,  and  the  morning  following  was  aa 
balmy  and  bright  as  June  mornings  are  wont  to 
be  after  a  fall  of  rain.  They  were  always  early  risers  at 
the  farmhouse,  but  this  morning  Anna,  who  had  slept  but 
little,  arose  earlier  than  usual,  and  leaning  from  the  win 
dow  to  inhale  the  bracing  air  and  gather  a  bunch  of  roses 
fresh  with  the  glittering  rain-drops,  felt  her  spirits  grow 
lighter,  and  wondered  at  her  discomposure  of  the  pre 
vious  day.  Particularly  was  she  grieved  that  she  should 
have  harbored  a  feeling  of  bitterness  towards  Lucy  Har- 
court,  who  was  not  to  blame  for  having  won  the  love  she 
had  been  foolish  enough  to  covet. 

"  He  knew  her  first,"  she  said,  "  and  if  he  has  since, 
been  pleased  with  me,  the  sight  of  her  has  won  him  back 
to  his  allegiance,  and  it  is  right.  She  is  a  pretty  crea 
ture,  but  strangely  unsuited,  I  fear,  to  be  his  wife,"  and 
then,  as  she  remembered  Lucy's  wish  to  go  with  her 
tfhen  next  she  visited  the  poor,  she  said  : 

"  I'll  take  her  to  see  the  Widow  Hobbs.     That  wiT 


WEDNESDAY.  329 

give  her  some  idea  of  the  duties  which  will  devolve  upon 
her  us  a  rector's  wife.  I  can  go  directly  there  from  Pros 
pect  Hill,  where,  I  suppose,  I  must  call  with  Aunt  Mere 
dith." 

Anna  made  herself  believe  that  in  doing  this  she  was 
acting  only  from  a  magnanimous  desire  to  fit  Lucy  for 
her  work,  if,  indeed,  she  was  to  be  Arthur's  wife, — that 
in  taking  the  mantle  from  her  own  shoulders,  and  wrap 
ping  it  around  her  rival,  she  was  doing  a  most  amiable 
deed,  when  down  in  her  inmost  heart,  where  the  tempter 
had  put  it,  there  was  an  unrecognized  wish  to  see  how 
the  little  dainty  girl  would  shrink  from  the  miserable 
abode,  and  recoil  from  the  touch  of  the  dirty  hands, 
which  were  sure  to  be  laid  upon  her  dress  if  the  children 
were  at  home,  and  she  waited  impatiently  to  start  on  her 
errand  of  mercy. 

It  was  four  o'clock  when,  with  her  aunt,  she  arrived 
at  Colonel  Hetherton's,  and  found  the  family  assembled 
upon  the  broad  piazza, — Mr.  Bellamy  dutifully  holding 
the  skein  of  worsted  from  which  Miss  Fanny  was  crochet 
ing,  and  Lucy  playing  with  a  kitten,  whose  movements 
were  scarcely  more  graceful  than  her  own,  as  she  sprang 
up  and  ran  to  welcome  Anna. 

"  Oh  yes ;  I  shall  be  delighted  to  go  with  you.  Pray  let 
us  start  at  once,"  she  exclaimed,  when  after  a  few  mo 
ments'  conversation  Anna  told  where  she  was  going. 

Lucy  was  very  gayly  dressed,  and  Anna  scwled  to  her 


830  WEDNESDAY. 

self  as  she  imagined  the  startling  effect  the  white  muslin 
and  bright  ribbons  would  have  upon  the  inmates  of  the 
shanty  where  they  were  going.  There  was  a  remon 
strance  from  Mrs.  Hetherton  against  her  niece  walking  so 
far,  and  Mrs.  Meredith  suggested  that  they  sh  juld  ride, 
but  to  this  Lucy  objected.  She  meant  to  take  Anna's 
place  among  the  poor  when  she  was  gone,  she  said,  and 
how  was  she  ever  to  do  it  if  she  could  not  walk  so  little 
ways  as  that.  Anna,  too,  was  averse  to  the  riding,  and 
felt  a  kind  of  grim  satisfaction  when,  after  a  time,  the 
little  figure,  which  at  first  had  skipped  along  with  all  the 
airiness  of  a  bird,  began  to  lag,,  and  even  pant  for  breath, 
as  the  way  grew  steeper  and  the  path  more  stony  and 
rough.  Anna's  evil  spirit  was  in  the  ascendant  that 
afternoon,  steeling  her  heart  against  Lucy's  doleful  ex 
clamations,  as  one  after  another  her  delicate  slippers  were 
torn,  and  the  sharp  thistles,  of  which  the  path  was  full, 
penetrated  to  her  soft  flesh.  Straight  and  unbending  as 
a  young  Indian,  Anna  walked  on,  shutting  her  ears 
against  the  sighs  of  weariness  which  reached  them  from 
time  to  time.  But  when  there  came  a  half-sobbing  cry  of 
actual  pain,  she  stopped  suddenly  and  turned  towards 
Lucy,  whose  breath  came  gaspingly,  and  whose  cheeks 
were  almost  purple  with  the  exertions  she  had  made. 

"  I  cannot  go  any  farther  until  I  rest,"  she  said,  sink 
ing  down  exhausted  upon  a  large  flat  rock  beneath  a  wat 
nut-tree. 


WEDNESDA  T.  881 

Touched  with  pity  at  the  sight  of  the  heated  face,  from 
which  the  sweat  was  dripping,  Anna  too  sat  down  beside 
her,  and  laying  the  curly  head  in  her  lap,  she  hated  her 
self  cordially,  as  Lucy  said  : 

'*  You've  walked  so  fast  I  could  not  keep  up.  You  do 
not  know,  perhaps,  how  weak  I  am,  and  how  little  it 
takes  to  tire  me.  They  say  my  heart  is  diseased,  and  an 
unusual  excitement  might  kill  me." 

"  No,  oh  no  !  "  Anna  answered  with  a  shudder,  as  she 
thought  of  what  might  have  been  the  result  of  her  rash 
ness,  and  then  she  smoothed  the  wet  hair,  which,  dried  by 
the  warm  sunbeams,  coiled  itself  up  in  golden  masses 
which  her  fingers  softly  threaded. 

"  I  did  not  know  it  until  that  time  in  Venice  when 
Arthur  talked  to  me  so  good,  trying  to  make  me  feel  that 
it  was  not  hard  to  die,  even  if  I  was  so  young  and  the 
world  so  full  of  beauty,"  Lucy  went  on,  her  voice  sound 
ing  very  low,  and  her  bright  shoulder-knots  of  ribbon 
trembling  with  the  rapid  beating  of  her  heart.  "  When 
he  was  talking  to  me  I  could  be  almost  willing  to  die,  but 
the  moment  he  was  gone  the  doubts  and  fears  came  back, 
and  death  was  terrible  again.  I  was  always  better  with 
Arthur.  Everybody  is,  and  I  think  your  seeing  so  much 
of  him  is  one  reason  why  you  are  so  good." 

"  No,  no,  I  am  not  good,"  and  Anna's  hands  pressed 
hard  upon  tho  girlish  head  lying  in  her  lap.  "  I  am 
wicked  beyond  what  you  can  guess.  I  led  you  thift 


332  WEDNE8LA7. 

rough  way  wheu  I  might  have  chosen  a  smooth  though 
longer  road,  and  walked  so  fast  on  purpose  to  worry  you.** 

"  To  worry  me.  Why  should  you  wish  to  do  that  ?  ** 
and  lifting  up  her  head,  Lucy  looked  wonderingly  at  th« 
conscience-stricken  Anna,  who  could  not  confess  to  the 
jealousy,  but  who  in  all  other  respects  answered  truthfully  : 
"  I  think  an  evil  spirit  possessed  me  for  a  time,  and  I 
wanted  to  show  you  that  it  was  not  so  nice  to  visit  the 
poor  as  you  seemed  to  think,  but  I  am  sorry,  oh  so  sorry, 
and  you'll  forgive  me,  won't  you  ?  " 

A  loving  kiss  was  pressed  upon  her  lips  and  a  warm 
cheek  was  laid  against  her  own,  as  Lucy  said,  "  Of  course 
I'll  forgive  you,  though  I  do  not  quite  understand  why 
you  should  wish  to  discourage  me  or  tease  me  either, 
when  I  liked  you  so  much  from  the  first  moment  I  heard 
jour  voice,  and  saw  you  in  the  choir.  You  don't  dislike 
me,  do  you  ?  " 

"  No,  oh  no.  I  love  you  very  deari/,"  Anna  replied, 
her  tears  falling  like  rain  upon  the  slight  form  she  hugged 
BO  passionately  to  her,  and  which  she  would  willingly 
have  borne  in  her  arms  the  remainder  of  the  way,  as  a 
kind  of  penance  for  her  past  misdewls ;  but  Lucy  was 
much  better,  and  so  the  two,  between  whom  there  ^aa 
now  a  bond  of  love  which  nothing  could  sever,  went  on 
together  ';o  the  low  dismal  house  where  the  Widow  Hobbi 
lived. 

The  gate  was  off  the  hinges,  and  Lucy's  muslin  wa» 


WEDNESDAY.  333 

torn  apon  a  nail  as  she  passed  through,  while  the  long 
fringe  of  her  fleecy  shawl  was  caught  in  the  tall  tufts  of 
thistle  growing  by  the  path.  In  a  muddy  pool  of  water, 
a  few  rods  from  the  house,  a  flock  of  ducks  were  swim 
ming,  pelted  occasionally  by  the  group  of  dirty,  ragged 
children  playing  on  the  grass,  and  who,  at  sight  of  the 
strangers  and  the  basket  Anna  carried,  sprang  up  like  a 
flock  of  pigeons,  and  came  trooping  towards  her.  It  was 
not  the  sweet,  pastoral  scene  which  Lucy  had  pictured  to 
herself,  with  Arthur  for  the  background,  and  her  ardor 
was  greatly  dampened  even  before  the  threshold  was 
crossed,  and  she  stood  in  the  low,  close  room  where  the 
sick  woman  lay,  her  eyes  unnaturally  bright,  and  turned 
wistfully  upon  them  as  she  entered.  There  were  ashes 
upon  the  hearth  and  ashes  upon  the  floor,  a  hair-brush 
upon  the  table  and  an  empty  plate  upon  the  chair,  with 
swarms  of  flies  sipping  the  few  drops  of  molasses  and 
feeding  upon  the  crumbs  of  bread  left  there  by  the  elfish- 
looking  child  now  in  the  bed  beside  its  mother.  There 
was  nothing  but  poverty, — squalid,  disgusting  poverty, 
visible  everywhere,  and  Lucy  grew  sick  and  faint  at  the, 
to  her,  unusual  sight. 

"  They  have  not  lived  here  long.  We  only  found  them 
three  weeks  ago  ;  they  will  look  better  by  and  by,"  Anna 
whispered,  feeling  that  some  apology  was  necessary  for  th« 
destitution  and  filth  visible  everywhere. 

Daintily  removing  the  plate  to  the  table,  and  carefully 


884  WEDNESDAY 

tacking  up  her  skirts,  Lucy  sat  down  uj  on  the  wcxxton 
chair  and  looked  dubiously  on  while  Anna  made  th» 
sick  woman  more  tidy  in  appearance,  and  then  fed  her 
from  the  basket  of  provisions  which  Grandma  Humphreyi 
had  sent. 

"  I  never  could  do  that,"  Lucy  thought,  as  shoving  off 
the  little  dirty  hand  fingering  her  shoulder-knots  she 
watched  Anna  washing  the  poor  woman's  face,  and  bend 
ing  over  her  pillow  as  unhesitatingly  as  if  it  had  been 
covered  with  ruffled  linen  like  those  at  Prospect  Hill,  in 
stead  of  the  coarse  soiled  rag  which  hardly  deserved  the 
name  of  pillow-case.  "  No,  I  never  could  do  that,"  and 
the  possible  life  with  Arthur  which  the  maiden  had  more 
than  once  imagined  began  to  look  very  dreary,  when  sud 
denly  a  shadow  darkened  the  door,  and  Lucy  knew  before 
she  turned  her  head  that  the  rector  was  standing  at  her 
back,  and  the  blood  tingled  through  her  veins  with  a  de 
licious  feeling ;  as,  laying  both  his  hands  upon  her  shoul 
ders,  and  bending  over  her  so  that  she  felt  his  breath  upon 
her  brow,  he  said : 

"  What,  my  lady  Lucy  here  ?  I  hardly  expected  to 
find  two  ministering  angels,  though  I  was  almost  sure  of 
one,"  and  his  eye  rested  on  Anna  with  a  wistful  look  of 
tenderness,  which  neither  she  nor  Lucy  saw. 

"  Then  you  knew  she  was  coming,"  Lucy  said,  an  un 
easy  thought  flashing  across  her  mind  as  she  remembered 
the  picnic,  and  the  scene  she  had  stumbled  upon. 


WEDNESDAY.  335 

But  Arthur's  i«ply,  "  I  did  not  know  she  was  coming; 
I  only  knew  i\  was  like  her,"  reassured  her  for  a  time, 
making  her  resolre  to  emulate  the  virtues  which.  Arthur 
•eemed  to  prize  \io  highly.  What  a  difference  his  pres 
ence  made  in  tLat  wretched  room.  She  did  not  mind 
the  poverty  now,  or  care  if  her  dress  was  stained  with  the 
molasses  left  in  tl  e  chair,  and  the  inquisitive  child  with 
tattered  gown  and  bare,  brown  legs  was  welcome  to  ex 
amine  and  admire  the  bright  plaid  ribbons  as  much  as 
she  chose. 

Lucy  had  no  thought  for  anything  but  Arthur,  and  the 
subdued  expression  of  his  face,  as  kneeling  by  the  sick 
woman's  bedside  he  said  the  prayers  she  had  hungered 
for  more  than  for  the  contents  of  Anna's  basket,  which 
were  now  purloined  by  the  children  crouched  upon  the 
hearth  and  fighting  over  the  last  bit  of  gingerbread. 

(t  Hush-sh,  little  one,"  and  Lucy's  hand  rested  on  the 
head  of  the  principal  belligerent,  who,  awed  by  the  beauty 
of  Iber  face  and  the  authoritative  tone  of  her  voice,  kept 
quiet  till  the  prayer  was  over  and  Arthur  had  risen  from 
his  knees. 

"  Thank  you,  Lucy ;  I  think  I  must  constitute  you  my 
deaconess  when  Miss  Ruthven  is  gone.  Your  very 
presence  has  a  subduing  effect  upon  the  little  savages.  I 
never  knew  them  so  quiet  before  so  long  a  time,"  Arthur 
laid  to  Lucy  in  a  low  tone,  which,  low  as  it  was,  reached 


336  WEDNESDA  t . 

Anna's  ear,  but  brought  no  pang  of  jealousy  01  sharp  re 
gret  for  what  she  felt  was  lost  forever. 

She  was  giving  Lucy  to  Arthur  Leighton,  resolving 
titat  by  every  means  in  her  power  she  would  further  her 
tival's  cause,  and  the  hot  tears  which  dropped  so  fast 
upon  Mrs.  Hobbs's  pillow  while  Arthur  said  the  prayer 
were  but  the  baptism  of  that  vow,  and  not,  as  Lucy 
thought,  because  she  felt  so  sorry  for  the  suffering  woman 
who  had  brought  so  much  comfort  to  her. 

"  God  bless  you  wherever  you  go,"  she  said,  "  and  if 
there  is  any  great  good  which  you  desire,  may  He  bring 
it  to  pass." 

"  He  never  will, — no,  never,"  was  the  sad  response  in 
Anna's  heart,  as  she  joined  the  clergyman  and  Lucy,  who 
were  standing  outside  the  door,  the  former  pointing  to 
the  ruined  slippers,  and  asking  her  how  she  ever  expected 
to  walk  home  in  such  dilapidated  things. 

"  I  shall  certainly  have  to  carry  you,"  he  said,  "  or 
your  blistered  feet  will  evermore  be  thrust  forward  as  a 
reason  why  you  cannot  be  my  deaconess." 

He  seemed  to  be  in  unusual  spirits  that  afternoon,  and 
the  party  went  gayly  on,  Anna  keeping  a  watchful  care 
over  Lucy,  picking  out  the  smoothest  places,  and  passing 
her  arm  round  her  waist  as  they  were  going  up  a  hill. 

u  1  think  it  would  be  better  if  you  both  leaned  on  me," 
the  rector  said,  offering  each  an  arm,  and  apologizing  for 
fcot  having  thought  to  do  so  before. 


WEDNESDAY.  337 

"  I  do  not  need  it,  thank  you,  but  Miss  Harcourt  does. 
I  fear  she  is  very  tired,"  said  Anna,  pointing  to  Lucy's 
face,  which  was  so  white  and  ghastly  and  so  like  the  face 
seen  once  before  in  Venice,  that  without  another  word, 
Arthur  took  the  tired  girl  in  his  strong  arms  and  carried 
her  safely  to  the  summit  of  the  hill. 

"Please  put  me  down;  I  can  walk  now,"  Lucy 
pleaded ;  but  Arthur  felt  the  rapid  beatings  of  her  heart, 
and  kept  her  in  bis  arms  until  they  reached  Prospect 
Hill,  were  Mrs.  Meredith  was  anxiously  awaiting  their 
return,  her  brow  clouding  with  distrust  when  she  saw 
Mr.  Leighton,  for  she  was  constantly  fearing  lest  her 
guilty  secret  should  be  exposed. 

"  I'll  leave  JIanover  this  very  week,  and  remove  her 
frorfl  danger,"  she  thought,  as  she  rose  to  say  good 
night. 

"Just  wait  a  minute,  please.  There's  something  I 
want  to  say  to  Miss  Ruthven,"  Lucy  cried,  and  leading 
Anna  to  her  own  room,  she  knelt  down  by  her  side,  and 
looking  up  in  her  face,  began  : 

"  There's  one  question  which  I  wish  to  as'k,  and  you 
must  answer  rae  truly.  It  is  rude  and  inquisitive,  per 
haps,  but, — tell  me, — has  Arthur — ever — ever — " 

Anna  guessed  what  was  coming,  and  with  a  sob,  which 
Lucy  thought  was  a  long-drawn  breath,  she  kissed  the 
pretty,  parted  lips,  and  answered  : 

w  No,  darling,  Arthur  never  did,  and  never  wijl,  but 
15 


338  WEDNESDAY. 

some  time  he  will  ask  you  to  be  his  wife.  I  can  see  it 
coming  so  plain." 

Poor  Anna!  her  heart  gave  one  great  throb  as  she 
said  this,  and  then  lay  like  a  dead  weight  in  her  bosom, 
while  with  sparkling  eyes  and  blushing  cheeks,  Lucy  ex 
claimed  : 

"  I  am  so  glad, — so  glad.  I  have  only  known  you 
since  Sunday,  but  you  seem  like  an  old  friend,  and  you 
won't  mind  my  telling  you  that  ever  since  I  first  met 
Arthur  among  the  Alps,  I  have  lived  in  a  kind  of  ideal 
world,  of  which  he  was  the  centre.  I  am  an  orphan, 
you  know,  and  an  heiress,  too.  There  is  half  a  million, 
they  say ;  and  Uncle  Hetherton  has  charge  of  it.  Now, 
will  you  believe  me,  when  I  say  that  I  would  give  every 
dollar  of  this  for  Arthur's  love  if  I  could  not  have  it 
without?  " 

"  I  do  believe  you,"  Anna  replied,  inexpressibly  glad 
that  the  gathering  darkness  hid  her  white  face  from  view 
as  the  childlike,  unsuspecting  girl  went  on :  "  The 
world,  I  know,  would  say  that  a  poor  clergyman  was  not 
a  good  match  for  me,  but  I  do  not  care  for  that.  Cousin 
Fanny  favors  it,  I  am  sure,  and  Uncle  Hetherton  would 
not  oppose  me  when  he  saw  I  was  in  earnest.  Once  the 
world,  which  .is  a  very  meddlesome  thing,  picked  out 
Thornton  Hastings,  of  New  York,  for  me ;  but  my !  he 
was  too  proud  and  lofty  even  to  talk  to  me  much,  and  1 
would  not  speak  to  him  after  I  heard  of  his  saying 


WEDNESDAY.  338 

'I  was  a  pretty  little  plaything,  but  far  too  frivolous  for 
a  sensible  man  to  make  his  wife.'  Oh,  wasn't  I  angry 
though,  and  don't  I  hopo  that  when  he  gets  a  wife  she 
will  be  exactly  such  a  frivolous  thing  as  I  am." 

Even  through  the  darkness  Anna  could  see  the  blue 
eyes  flash,  and  the  delicate  nostrils  dilate  as  Lucy  gave 
vent  to  her  wrath  against  the  luckless  Thornton  Hast 
ings. 

"  You  will  meet  him  at  Saratoga.  He  is  always  there 
in  the  summer,  but  don't  you  speak  to  him,  the  hateful, 
He'll  be  calling  you  frivolous  next." 

An  amused  smile  flitted  across  Anna's  face  as  she 
asked,  "  But  won't  you  too  be  at  Saratoga  ?  I  supposed 
you  were  all  going  there." 

"  Gda  depend"  Lucy  replied.  " I  would  so  much 
rather  stay  here,  the  dressing,  and  dancing,  and  flirting 
tire  me  so,  and  then  you  know  what  Arthur  said  about 
taking  me  for  his  deaconess  in  your  place." 

There  was  a  call  just  then  from  the  hall  below.  Mrs. 
Meredith  was  getting  impatient  of  the  delay,  and  with  a 
good-by  kiss,  Anna  went  down  the  stairs,  and  stood  out 
upon  the  piazza,  where  her  aunt  was  waiting.  Mr. 
Leighton  had  accepted  Fanny's  invitation  to  stay  to  tea, 
and  he  handed  the  ladies  to  their  carriage,  lingering  a 
moment  while  he  said  his  parting  words,  for  he  was 
going  out  of  town  to-morrow,  and  when  he  returned 
Anna  would  be  gone. 


340  WEDNESDAY. 

"  You  will  think  of  us  sometimes,"  he  said,  still  hold 
ing  Anna's  hand.  "  St.  Mark's  will  be  lonely  without 
you.  God  bless  you  and  bring  you  safely  back." 

There  was  a  pressure  of  the  hand,  a  lifting  of  Arthur's 
hat,  and  then  the  carriage  moved  away ;  but  Anna,  look 
ing  back,  saw  Arthur  standing  by  Lucy's  side,  fastening 
a  rose-bud  in  her  hair,  and  at  that  sight  the  gleam  of 
hope  which  for  an  instant  had  crept  into  her  heart 
treay  with  a  sigh. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

AT   NEWPORT. 

|OVED  by  a  strange  impulse,  Thornton  Hasting! 
took  himself  and  his  fast  bays  to  Newport  in 
stead  of  Saratoga,  and  thither,  the  first  week 
in  August,  came  Mrs.  Meredith,  with  eight  large  trunks, 
her  niece,  and  her  niece's  wardrobe,  which  had  cost  the 
p-offjr  011  IT,  of  eighteen  hundred  dollars. 

Jkirti  Meredith  was  not  naturally  lavish  of  her  money, 
except  where  her  own  interests  were  concerned,  as  they 
v/ere  in  Anna's  case.  Conscious  of  having  corae  betweei 
her  niece  and  the  man  she  loved,  she  determined  that  in 
the  procuring  of  a  substitute  for  this  man,  -JD  advantages 
which  dress  could  afford  should  be  lacking.  Besides, 
Thornton  Hastings  was  a  perfect  connoisseur  in  every 
thing  pertaining  to  a  lady's  toilet,  and  it  was  with  him 
and  his  preference  before  her  mind  that  Mrs.  Meredith 
opened  her  purse  so  widely  and  bought  so  extensively. 
There  were  sun  hats  and  round  hats,  and  hats  a  la  cava 
lier, — there  were  bonnets  and  veils,  anJ  dresses,  and 
Bhawls  of  every  color  and  kind,  with  the  lesser  matters 
of  sashes,  and  gloves,  and  slippers,  and  fans,  the  whole 


342  AT  NEWPORT 

making  an  array  such  as  Anna  had  never  seen  be 
fore,  and  from  which  she  had  at  first  shrank  back  ap 
palled  and  dismayed.  But  she  was  not  now  ^uite  so 
much  of  a  novice  as  when  she  first  reached  New  York, 
the  Saturday  following  the  picnic  at  Prospect  Hill.  She 
had  passed  successfully  and  safely  through  the  hands  o* 
mantua-makers,  milliners,  and  hair-dressers  since  then. 
She  had  laid  aside -every  article  brought  from  home. 
She  wore  her  hair  in  puffs  and  waterfalls,  and  her  dresses 
in  the  latest  mode.  She  had  seen  the  fashionable  world 
is  represented  at  Saratoga,  and  sickening  at  the  sight, 
had  gladly  acquiesced  in  her  aunt's  proposal  to  go  on  to 
Newport,  where  the  air  was  purer,  and  the  hotels  not  so 
densely  packed.  She  had  been  called  a  beauty  and  a 
belle,  but  her  heart  was  longing  still  for  the  leafy  woods 
and  fresh,  green  fields  of  Hanover ;  and  Newport,  she 
fancied,  would  be  more  like  the  country  than  sultry, 
crowded  Saratoga,  and  never  since  leaving  home  had  she 
looked  so  bright  and  pretty  as  the  evening  after  her  ar 
rival  at  the  Ocean  House,  when>  invigorated  by  the  bath 
she  had  taken  in  the  morning,  and  gladdened  by  sight  of 
the  glorious  sea  and  the  soothing  tones  it  murmured  in 
her  ear,  she  came  down  to  the  parlor,  clad  in  simple 
white,  with  only  a  bunch  of  violets  in  her  hair,  and  no 
other  ornament  than  the  handsome  pearls  her  aunt  had 
given  to  her.  Standing  at  tho  open  window,  with  the 
drapeiy  of  the  lace  curtain  sweeping  gracefully  behind 


AT  NEWPORT.  343 

her,  she  did  not  look  much  like  the  Anna  who  led  the 
choir  in  Hanover  and  visited  the  Widow  Hobbs,  nor  ye* 
much  like  the  picture  which  Thornton  Hastings  had^ 
formed  of  the  girl  who  he  knew  was  there  for  his  in 
spection.  He  had  been  absent  the  entire  day,  and  had 
not  seen  Mrs.  Meredith,  when  she  arrived  early  in  the 
morning,  but  he  found  her  card  in  his  room,  and  a  smile 
curled  his  lip  as  he  said  : 

"  And  so  I  have  not  escaped  her." 

Thornton  Hastings  had  proved  a  most  treacherovu 
knight,  and  overthrown  his  general's  plans  entirely.  Ar 
thur's  letter  had  affected  him  strangely,  for  he  readily 
guessed  how  deeply  wounded  his  sensitive  friend  had 
been  by  Anna  Ruthven's  refusal,  while  added  to  this  was 
a  fear  lest  Anna  had  been  influenced  by  a  thought  of 
himself,  and  what  might  possibly  result  from  an  acquaint 
ance.  Thornton  Hastings  had  been  nattered  and  angled 
for  until  he  had  grown  somewhat  vain,  and  it  did  not 
strike  him  as  at  all  improbable  that  the  unsophisticated 
Anna  should  have  designs  upon  him. 

"  But  I  won't  give  her  a  chance,"  he  said,  when  he 
finished  Arthur's  letter.  "  I  thought  once  I  might  like 
her,  but  I  shan't,  and  I'll  be  revenged  on  her  for  refus 
ing  the  best  man  that  ever  breathed.  I'll  go  to  Newport 
instead  of  Saratoga,  and  so  be  clear  of  the  entire  Mere 
dith  clique,  tho  Hethertons,  the  little  Harcourt,  and 
all" 


944  AT  NEWPORT. 

This,  then,  was  the  secret  of  his  being  at  the  Ocean 
House.  He  was  keeping  away  from  Anna  Ruthven,  wh<> 
never  had  heard  of  him  but  once,  and  that  from  Lucy 
Harcourt.  After  that  scene  in  the  Glen,  where  Anna 
had  exclaimed  against  intriguing  mothers  and  their  bold, 
shame-faced  daughters,  Mrs.  Meredith  had  been  too  wise 
a  manoeuvrer  to  mention  Thornton  Hastings,  so  that 
Anna,  was  wholly  ignorant  of  his  presence  at  Newport, 
and  looked  up  in  unfeigned  surprise  at  the  tall,  elegant 
man  whom  her  aunt  presented  as  Mr.  Hastings.  With 
all  Thornton's  affected  indifference,  there  was  still  a  cu 
riosity  to  see  the  girl  who  could  say  "  no "  to  Arthur 
Leighton,  and  he  did  not  wait  long  after  receiving  Mrs. 
Meredith's  card  before  going  down  to  find  her. 

"  That's  the  girl,  I'll  lay  a  wager,"  he  thought  of  a 
high-colored,  showily  dressed  hoyden,  who  was  whirling 
around  the  room  with  Kcd  Peters,  from  Boston,  and 
whose  corn-colored  dress  swept  against  his  boots  as  ho 
entered  the  parlor. 

How,  then,  was  he  disappointed  in  the  apparition  Mrs. 
Meredith  presented  as  (( my  niece,"  the  modest,  self-pos 
sessed  young  girl,  whose  cheeks  grew  not  a  whit  the 
redder,  and  whose  pulse  did  not  quicken  at  the  sight  of 
him,  though  a  gleam  of  something  like  curiosity  shone 
in  the  brown  eyes  which  scanned  him  so  quietly.  She 
was  thinking  of  Lucy,  and  her  injunction  "  not  to  speak 
to  the  hateful  if  she  saw  him  j "  but  she  did  speak  to 


AT  NEWPORT.  345 

him;  aud  Mrs.  Meredith  fanned  herself  complacently  ai 
she  saw  how  fast  they  became  acquainted. 

"  You  don't  dance,"  Mr.  Hastings  said,  as  she  declined 
an  invitation  from  Ned  Peters,  whom  she  had  met  at 
Saratoga,  "  I  am  gladj  for  you  will  perhaps  walk  with 
me  outside  upon  the  piazza.  You  won't  take  cold,  I 
think,"  and  he  glanced  thoughtfully  at  the  white  neck 
and  shoulders  gleaming  beneath  the  gauzy  muslin. 

Mrs.  Meredith  was  in  rhapsodies,  and  sat  a  full  hour 
with  the  tiresome  dowagers  around  her,  while  up  and 
down  the  broad  piazza  Thornton  Hastings  walked  with 
Anna,  talking  to  her  as  he  seldom  talked  to  women,  aad 
feeling  greatly  surprised  to  find  that  what  he  said  w  aa 
fully  appreciated  and  understood.  That  he  was  pleased 
with  her  he  could  not  deny  to  himself,  as  he  sat  alone  in 
his  room  that  night,  feeling  more  and  more  how  keenly 
Arthur  Leighion  must  have  felt  her  refusal. 

"  But  why  did  she  refuse  him  ?  "  he  wished  he  knew, 
and  ere  he  slept  he  resolved  to  study  Anniu,  Ruthven 
closely,  and  ascertain,  if  possible,  the  motive  which 
prompted  her  to  discard  a  man  like  Arthur  Ldghton. 

The  next  day  brought  the  Hetherton  paity,  all  bat 
Lucy  Harcourt,  who,  Fanny  laughingly  said,  was  just 
now  suffering  from  clergyman  on  the  braiii,  and,  as  a  cer 
tain  cure  for  the  disease,  had  turned  my  Lady  Bountiful, 
and  was  playing  the  pretty  patroness  to  all  Mr.  Leigh- 

1*  parishioners,  especially  a  Widow  Hobbsj  whoa*  xiio 
15* 


346  AT  NEWl^ORT. 

had  actually  taken  to  ride  in.  the  carriage^  and  to  whoae 
ragged  children  she  had  sent  a  bundle  of  cast-off  party 
dresses ;  and  the  tears  ran  down  Fanny's  cheeks  as  she 
described  the  appearance  of  the  elder  Hobbs,  who  came 
to  church  with  a  soiled  pink  silk  skirt,  her  black,  tattered 
petticoat  hanging  down  below,  and  one  of  Lucy's  opera 
hoods  upon  her  head. 

"  And  the  clergyman  on  her  brain  ?  Does  he  appreci 
ate  his  situation  ?  I  have  an  interest  there.  He  is  an 
old  friend  of  mine,"  Thornton  Hastings  asked. 

He  had  been  an  amused  listener  to  Fanny's  gay  badi 
nage,  laughing  merrily  at  the  idea  of  Lucy's  taking  an  old 
•woman  out  to  air,  and  clothing  her  children  in  party 
dresses.  His  opinion  of  Lucy,  as  she  had  said,  was  that 
fihe  was  a  pretty  but  frivolous  plaything,  and  it  showed 
upon  his  face  as  he  asked  the  question  he  did,  watching 
Anna  furtively  as  Fanny  replied  : 

u  Oh  yes,  he  is  certainly  smitten,  and  I  must  say  I 
never  saw  Lucy  so  thoroughly  in  earnest.  Why,  she 
really  seems  to  enjoy  travelling  all  over  Christendom  to 
find  the  hovels  and  huts,  though*  she  is  mortally  afraid 
of  the  small-pox,  aud  always  carries  with  her  a  bit  of 
chloride  of  lime  as  a  disinfecting  agent.  I  am  sure  she 
ought  to  win  the  parson.  And  so  you  know  him,  do 
you  ?  " 

u  Yes;  we  weie  in  college  together,  and  I  esteem  him 


AT  NEWPORT.  847 

•o  highly  that,  Lad  I  a  sister,  there  is  no  man  living  to 
whom  I  would  so  readily  give  her  as  to  him." 

He  was  looking  now  at  Anna,  whose  face  was  very 
pale,  and  who  pressed  a  rose  she  held  so  tightly  that  the 
sharp  thorns  pierced  her  flesh,  and  a  drop  of  blood 
stained  the  whiteness  of  her  hand. 

"  See,  you  have  hurt  yourself,"  Mr.  Hastings  said, 
"  Come  to  the  water-pitcher  and  wash  the  stain  away." 

She  went  with  him  mechanically,  and  let  him  hold 
her  hand  in  his  while  he  wiped  off  the  blood  with 
his  own  handkerchief,  treating  her  with  a  tenderness  for 
which  he  could  hardly  account.  He  pitied  her,  and  sus 
pected  she  had  repented  of  her  rashness,  and  because  he 
pitied  her  he  asked  her  to  ride  with  him  that  day  after 
the  fast  bays,  of  which  he  had  written  to  Arthur.  Many 
admiring  eyes  were  cast  after  them  as  they  drove  away, 
and  Mrs.  Hetherton  whispered  softly  to  Mrs.  Meredith : 

"  A  match  in  progress,  I  see.  You  have  done  well  for 
your  charming  niece." 

And  yet  matrimony,  as  concerned  himself,  was  very 
far  from  Thornton  Hastings'  thoughts  that  afternoon 
when,  because  he  saw  that  it  pleased  Anna  to  have  him 
do  so,  he  talked  to  her  of  Arthur,  hoping,  in  his  un 
selfish  heart,  that  what  he  said  in  his  praise  might  influ 
ence  her  to  reconsider  her  decision  and  give  him  a  differ* 
ent  answer.  This  was  the  second  day  of  Thornton 
Hustings'  acquaintance  with  Anna  Kuthvcn,  but  as  time 


348  AT  NEWPORT. 

went  on,  bringing  the  usuil  routine  of  life  afc  Newport, 
the  drives,  the  rides,  the  pleasant  piazza  talks,  and  th« 
quiet  moonlight  rambles,  when  Anna  was  always  his  com 
panion,  Thornton  Hastings  came  to  feel  an  unwillingness 
to  surrender  even  to  Arthur  Leighton  the  beautiful  girl 
who  pleased  him  better  than  any  one  he  had  known. 

Mrs.  Meredith's  plans  were  working  well,  and  so, 
"though  the  autumn  days  had  come,  and  one  after  another 
the  devotees  of  fashion  were  dropping  off,  she  lingered 
on,  and  Thornton  Hastings  still  rode  and  walked  with 
Anna  Ruthven,  until  there  came  a  night  when  they  wan 
dered  farther  than  usual  from  the  hotel,  and  sat  down  to 
gether  on  a  height  of  land  which  overlooked  the  placid 
waters,  where  the  moonlight  lay  softly  sleeping.  It  was 
a  most  lovely  night,  and  for  awhile  they  listened  in 
silence  to  the  music  of  the  sea,  and  then  talked  of  the 
breaking-up  which  would  come  in  a  few  days,  when  the 
hotel  was  to  be  closed,  and  wondered  if  next  year  they 
would  come  again  to  the  old  haunts  and  find  them  un 
changed. 

There  was  witchery  in  the  hour,  and  Thornton  felt  its» 
spell,  speaking  out  at  last,  and  asking  Anna  if  she  would 
be  his  wife.  He  would  shield  her  so  tenderly,  he  said, 
protecting  her  from  every  care,  and  making  her  as  happy 
as  love  and  money  could  make  her.  Then  he  told  her  of  hia 
home  in  the  far-off  city,  which  needed  only  her  presence 
to  make  it  a  paradise,  and  then  he  waited  for  her  answer, 


AT  NEWPORT.  349 

watching  anxiously  the  limp,  white  hands,  which,  when 
he  first  began  to  talk,  had  fallen  helplessly  upon  her  lap, 
and  then  had  crept  up  to  her  face,  which  was  turned 
away  from  him,  so  that  he  could  not  see  its  expression, 
or  guess  at  the  struggle  going  on  in  Anna's  mind.  She 
was  not  wholly  surprised,  for  she  could  not  mistake  the 
nature  of  the  interest  which,  for  the  last  two  weeksl 
Thornton  Hastings  had  manifested  in  her.  But  now 
that  the  moment  had  come,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
had  never  expected  it,  and  she  sat  silent  for  a  time,  dread 
ing  so  much  to  speak  the  words  which  she  knew  would 
inflict  pain  on  one  whom  she  respected  BO  highly,  but 
whom  she  could  not  marry. 

"  Don't  you  like  me,  Anna  ?  "  Thornton  asked  at  last, 
his  voice  very  low  and  tender,  as  he  bent  over  her  and 
tried  to  take  her  hand. 

"  Yes,  very  much,"  she  answered  ;  and  emboldened  by 
her  reply,  Thornton  lifted  up  her  head,  and  was  about  to 
kiss  her  forehead,  when  she  started  away  from  him,  ex 
claiming  : 

"  No,  Mr.  Hastings.  You  must  not  do  that.  I  cannot 
be  your  wife.  It  hurts  me  to  tell  you  so,  for  I  believe 
you  are  sincere  in  your  proposal ;  but  it  can  never  be. 
Forgive  me,  and  let  us  both  forget  this  wretched  summer.'1 

u  It  has  not  been  wretched  to  me.  It  has  been  a  very 
happy  summer,  since  I  knew  you  at  least,"  Mr.  Hasting! 
•aid,  and  then  ho  asked  again  that  she  should  reconsidei 


350  A?  NEWPORT. 

her  decision.  He  could  not  take  it  as  her  final  one.  H€ 
had  loved  her  too  much,  had  thought  too  much  of  mak 
ing  her  his  own,  to  give  her  up  so  easily,  he  said,  urging 
BO  many  reasons  why  she  should  think  again,  that  Anna 
said  to  him,  at  last : 

"  If  you  would  rather  have  it  so,  I  will  wait  a  month, 
but  you  must  not  hope  that  my  answer  will  be  different 
then  from  what  it  is  to-night.  I  want  your  friendship, 
though,  the  same  as  if  this  had  never  happened.  I  like 
you,  because  you  have  been  kind  to  me,  and-  made  my 
stay  in  Newport  so  much  pleasanter  than  I  thought  it 
could  be.  You  have  not  talked  to  me  like  other  men. 
You  have  treated  me  as  if  I  at  least  had  common-sense. 
I  thank  you  for  that  j  and  I  like  you  because — " 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  she  could  not  say 
"  Because  you  are  Arthur's  friend."  That  would  have 
betrayed  the  miserable  secret  tugging  at  her  heart,  and 
prompting  her  to  refuse  Thornton  Hastings,  who  had  also 
thought  of  Arthur  Leighton,  wondering  if  it  were  thus 
that  she  rejected  him,  and  if  in  the  background  there 
was  another  love  standing  between  her  and  the  two  men 
to  win  whom  many  a  woman  would  almost  have  given 
her  right  hand.  To  say  that  Thornton  was  not  piqued 
at  her  refusal  would  be  false.  He  had  not  expected  it, 
accustomed  as  he  was  to  adulation ;  but  he  tried  to  put  that 
feeling  down,  and  his  manner  was  even  more  kind  and  con- 
iideraie  than  ever  as  he  walked  back  to  the  hotel,  where 


AT  NEWPORT.  351 

Mrs.  Meredith  was  waiting  for  them,  her  practised  eye 
detecting  at  once  that  something  was  amiss.  Thornton 
Hastings  knew  Mrs.  Meredith  thoroughly,  and,  wishing 
to  shield  Anna  from  her  displeasure,  he  preferred  stating 
the  facts  himself  to  having  them  wrung  from  the  pale, 
agitated  girl,  who,  bidding  him  good-night,  went  quickly 
to  her  room ;  so,  when  she  was  gone,  and  he  stood  for  « 
moment  alone  with  Mrs.  Meredith,  he  said  : 

"  I  have  proposed  to  your  niece,  but  she  cannot  answer 
me  now.  She  wishes  for  a  month's  probation,  which  I 
have  granted,  and  I  ask  that  she  shall  not  be  persecuted 
about  the  matter.  I  must  have  an  unbiassed  answer." 

He  bowed  politely  and  walked  away,  while  Mrs.  Mere 
dith  almost  trod  on  air  as  she  climbed  the  stairs  and 
sought  her  niece's  chamber.  Over  the  interview  which 
ensued  that  night  we  pass  silently,  and  come  to  the  next 
morning,  when  Anna  sat  alone  on  the  piazza  at  the  rear 
of  the  hotel,  watching  the  playful  gambols  of  some  chil 
dren  on  the  grass,  and  wondering  if  she  ever  could  con 
scientiously  say  yes  to  Thornton  Hastings'  suit.  He  was 
coming  towards  her  now,  lifting  his  hat  politely,  and  ask 
ing  what  she  would  give  for  news  from  home. 

"  I  found  this  on  my  table,"  he  said,  holding  up  a 
dainty  little  missive,  on  the  corner  of  which  was  written 
"  In  haste,"  as  if  its  contents  were  of  the  utmost  im 
portance;  "  The  boy  must  have  made  a  mistake,  or  else 
he  thougtt  it  well  to  begin  at  once  bringing  your  letten 


352  AT  NEWPORT. 

to  me,"  he  continued  with  a  smile,  as  he  hanJed  Anna 
the  letter  from  Lucy  Harcourt.  "  I  have  one,  too,  from 
Arthur,  which  I  will  read  while  you  are  devouring  ycurSv 
and  then,  perhaps,  you  will  take  a  little  ride.  The  Sep 
tember  air  is  very  bracing  this  morning,"  he  said,  walk 
ing  away  to  the  far  end  of  the  piazza  while  Anna  broke 
the  seal  of  the  envelope,  hesitating  a  moment  ere  taking 
the  letter  from  it,  and  trembling  as  if  she  guessed  what 
it  contained. 

There  was  a  quivering  of  the  eyelids,  a  paling  of  the 
lips  as  she  glanced  at  the  first  few  lines,  then  with  the 
low  moaning  cry,  "  No,  no,  oh  no,  not  that,"  she  fell 
upon  her  face. 

To  lift  her  in  his  arms  and  carry  her  to  her  room  was 
the  work  of  an  instant,  and  then,  leaving  her  to  Mrs. 
Meredith's  care,  Thornton  Hastings  went  back  to  finish 
Arthur's  letter,  which  might  or  might  not  throw  light 
upon  the  fainting-fit. 

"  Dear  Thornton,"  Arthur  wrote,  "  you  will  be  sur 
prised,  no  doubt,  to  hear  that  your  old  college  chum  is  at 
last  engaged;  but  not  to  one  of  the  fifty  lambs  about 
whom  you  once  jocosely  wrote.  The  shepherd  has  wan 
dered  from  his  flock,  and  is  about  to  take  into  his  bosom 
a  little  stray  ewe-lamb, — Lucy  Harcourt  by  name — " 

"The  deuce  he  is,"  was  Thornton's  ejacv'ation,  and 
then  he  read  on: 

"  She  is  an  acquaintance  of  yours,  I  believe,  s»  I 


AT  NEWPORT.  353 

not  describe  her,  except  to  say  that  she  is  soTiewhat 
changed  from  the  gay  butterfly  of  fashion  she  use  i  to  bo, 
and  in  time  will  make  as  demure  a  little  Quakeress  as  on? 
could  wish  to  see.  She  visits  constantly  among  my  poor, 
who  love  her  almost  as  well  as  they  once  loved  Anna 
Ruthven. 

"  Don't  ask  me,  Thorne,  in  your  blunt,  straightforward 
manner  if  I  have  so  soon  forgotten  Anna.  That  is  a 
matter  with  which  you've  nothing  to  do.  L«  *•  it  suffice 
that  I  am  engaged  to  another,  and  mean  to  m  ike  a  kind 
and  faithful  husband  to  her.  Lu  :y  would  have  suited 
you  better,  perhaps,  than  she  does  me ;  that  is,  the  world 
would  think  so,  but  the  world  does  not  always  know,  and 
if  I  am  satisfied,  surely  it  ought  to  be. 

"  Yours  truly, 

"A.  LEIGHTON." 

"  Engaged  to  Lucy  Harcourt !  I  never  could  have  be 
lieved  it.  He's  right  in  saying  that  she  is  far  more  suit 
able  for  me  than  him,"  Thornton  exclaimed,  dashing  aside 
the  letter  and  feeling  conscious  of  a  pang  as  he  remem 
bered  the  bright  airy  little  beauty  in  whom  he  had  once 
been  strongly  interested,  even  if  he  did  call  her  frivolous 
and  ridicule  her  childish  ways. 

She  was  frivolous,  too  much  so  by  far  to  be  a  clergy 
man's  wife,  and  for  a  full  half-hour  Thornton  paced  up 
and  down  the  room,  meditating  on  Arthur's  choice  and 
wondering  how  upon  earth  it  ever  happened. 


CHAPTER 

SHOWING  HOW   IT  HAPPENED. 

had  insisted  that  she  did  not  care  to  go  to 
Saratoga.  She  preferred  remaining  in  Hanover, 
wLcre  it  was  cool  and  quiet,  and  where  she 
would  uot  have  to  dress  three  times  a  day  and  dance 
every  nigM  until  twelve.  She  was  beginning  to  find  that 
there  ws&  something  to  live  for  besides  consulting  one's 
own  pleasure,  and  she  meant  to  do  good  the  rest  of  her 
life,  she  said,  assuming  such  a  sober,  nun-like  air,  that 
no  one  who  saw  her  could  fail  to  laugh,  it  was  so  at  va 
riance  with  her  entire  nature.  But  Lucy  was  in  earnest. 
Hanover  had  a  greater  attraction  for  her  than  all  the 
watering-places  in  the  world,  and  she  was  vrery  grateful 
when  Fanny  threw  her  influence  OP  her  side  and  so 
turned  the  scale  in  her  favor. 

Fanny  was  glad  to  leave  her  ^  xngerous  cousin  at  home, 
especially  after  Mr.  Bellamy  decided  to  join  their  party 
at  Saratoga ;  and  as  she  f  ^,rried  great  weight  with  both 
her  parents  it  was  final'/  decided  to  lee  Lucy  remain  at 
Prospect  ITill  in.  pea^e,  and  one  morning  in  July  she  saw 
the  family  depart  without  a  single  feeling  of  regret  that 


BHO  WING  HO  W  IT  HAPPENED.  355 

Bhe  was  not  of  their  number.  She  had  far  too  much  on 
her  hands  to  spend  her  time  in  regretting  anything 
there  was  the  parish  school  to  visit,  and  a  class  of  chil 
dren  to  hear,  children  who  were  no  longer  ragged,  for 
Lucy's  money  had  been  expended  till  even  Arthur  had 
remonstrated  with  her,  and  read  her  a  long  lecture  on  the 
subject  of  misapplied  charity.  Then  there  was  Widow 
Hobbs  waiting  for  the  jelly  which  Lucy  had  promised, 
and  for  the  chapter  which  Lucy  now  read  to  her,  sitting 
where  she  could  watch  the  road  and  see  just  who  turned 
the  corner,  her  voice  always  sounding  a  little  more  seri 
ous  and  good  when  the  footsteps  belonged  to  Arthur 
Leighton,  and  her  eyes  always  glancing  at  the  bit  of  a 
cracked  mirror  on  the  wall,  to  see  that  her  dress  and 
hair  and  ribbons  were  right  before  Arthur  came  in.  It 
>as  a  very  pretty  sight  to  see  her  thus  and  hear  her  as 
B-tte  read  to  the  poor,  whose  surroundings  she  had  so 
greatly  improved ;  and  Arthur  always  smiled  gratefully 
upon  her,  and  then  walked  back  with  her  to  Prospect 
Hill,  where  he  lingered  while  she  played  or  talked  to 
him,  or  brought  the  luscious  fruits  with  which  the  garden 
abounded. 

This  was  Lucy's  life,  which  she  preferred  to  Saratoga, 
and  they  left  her  to  enjoy  it,  somewhat  to  Arthur's  dis 
comfiture,  for,  much  as  he  valued  her  society,  he  would 
rather  she  had  gone  where  the  Hethertons  did,  foi  he  could 
not  be  insensible  to  the  remarks  which  were  being  made  bj 


356  SHOWING  HOW  IT  HAPPENED. 

the  curious  villagers,  who  watched  this  new  flirtation,  M 
thsy  called  it,  and  wondered  if  their  minister  had  forgotten 
Anna  Ruthven.  He  had  not  forgotten  her,  and  nianj?  t 
time  was  her  loved  name  upon  his  lips  and  a  thought  of 
her  in  his  heart,  while  he  never  returned  from  an  iuter 
view  with  Lucy  that  he  did  not  contrast  the  two,  and 
sigh  for  the  olden  time  when  Anna  was  his  coworker  in 
stead  of  pretty  Lucy  Harcourt.  And  yet  there  was  about 
the  latter  a  powerful  fascination  which  he  found  it  hard 
to  resist.  It  rested  him  just  to  look  at  her,  she  was  so 
fresh,  so  bright,  and  so  beautiful ;  and  then  she  flattered 
his  self-love  by  the  unbounded  deference  she  paid  to  his 
opinions,  studying  all  his  tastes  and  bringing  her  v.ill  m- 
to  perfect  subjection  to  his,  until  she  could  scarcely  be 
Raid  to  have  a  thought  or  feeling  which  was  not  o  reflec 
tion  of  his  own.  And  so  the  flirtation,  which  at  £  .;st  had 
been  a  one-sided  affair,  began  to  assume  a  more  serious 
form,  and  the  rector  went  oftener  to  Prospect  Hill,  whila 
the  Hetherton  carriage  stood  daily  at  the  gate  of  the  par 
sonage,  and  people  talked  and  gossiped,  until  ( !aptain 
Humphreys,  Anna's  grandfather,  concluded  it  was  1  is  duty 
as  (senior  warden  of  St.  Mark's,  to  talk  with  the  young 
rector  and  know  "  what  his  intentions  were." 

"  You  have  none  ?  "  he  said,  fixing  his  mild  eyes  re 
proachfully  upon  his  clergyman,  who  recoiled  a  iUile  be 
neath  ihe  gaze.  "  Then,  if  you  have  no  intentions,  lay 
advice  to  you  is  that  you  quit  it  and  let  the  gal  alone,  on 


SHOWING  HOW  IT  HAPPENED,  357 

you'll  ruin  her,  if  she  ain't  spoilt  already,  as  some  of  the 
women  folks  say  she  is.  It  don't  do  no  gal  any  good  to 
have  a  chap,  and  'specially  a  minister,  gallivantin'  aftei 
her,  as  I  must  say  you've  been  after  this  one  for  the  last 
few  weeks.  She's  a  pretty  little  creeter,  and  I  don't 
blanie  you  for  liking  her.  It  makes  my  old  blood  stir 
faster  when  she  comes  purring  around  me,  with  her  soft 
ways  and  winsome  face,  and  so  I  don't  wonder  at  you,  but 
when  you  say  you've  no  intentions,  I  blame  you  greatly. 
You  or'to  have.  Excuse  my  plainness;  I'm  an  ohl 
man,  and  I  like  my  minister,  and  don't  want  him  to  go 
wrong ;  and  then  I  feel  for  her,  left  all  alone  by  all  her 
folks ;  more's  the  shame  to  them,  and  more's  the  harm  to 
you,  to  tangle  up  her  affections  as  you  are  doing  if  you 
are  not  in  earnest ;  and  so  I  speak  for  her  just  as  I  should 
\»ant  some  one  to  speak  for  Anna ! " 

The  old  man's  voice  trembled  a  little  here,  for  it  had 
been  a  wish  of  his  that  Anna  should  occupy  the  parson 
age,  and  he  had  at  first  felt  a  little  resentment  against  the 
gay  young  creature  who  seemed  to  have  supplanted  her, 
but  he  was  over  that  now,  and  in  all  honesty  of  heart  he 
spoke  both  for  Lucy's  interest  and  that  of  his  clergyman. 
Ajid  Arthur  listened  to  him  respectfully,  feeling  when  he 
was  gone  that  he  merited  the  rebuke, — that  he  had  not 
been  guiltless  in  the  matter, — that  if  he  did  not  mean  to 
marry  Lucy  Harcourt  he  should  let  her  alone.  And  he 
would,  he  said,  — he  would  not  go  to  Prospect  Hill  again 


358  SHOWING  HOW  IT  HAPPENED. 

for  two  whole  weeks,  nor  visit  at  the  cottages  where  h« 
was  sure  to  find  her ;  he  would  keep  himself  at  home ;  and 
he  did,  and  shut  himself  up  among  his  books,  not  even 
going  to  make  a  pastoral  call  on  Lucy  when  he  taard 
that  she  was  sick.  And  so  Lucy  came  to  him,  locking 
dangerously  charming  in  her  blue  riding-habit  with  the 
white  feather  streaming  from  her  hat.  Very  prettily  she 
pouted,  too,  as  she  chided  him  for  his  neglect,  and  asked 
why  he  had  not  been  to  see  her  nor  anybody ; — there 
was  the  Widow  Hobbs,  and  Mrs.  Briggs,  and  those  miser 
able  Donelsons,  whom  he  had  not  been  near  for  a  fort 
night. 

"  What  is  the  reason  ?  "  she  asked,  beating  her  foo» 
upon  the  carpet  and  tapping  the  end  of  her  riding- whip 
upon  the  sermon  he  was  writing.  "  Are  you  displeased 
with  me,  Arthur,"  she  continued,  her  eyes  filling  with 
tears  as  she  saw  the  expression  of  his  face.  ft  Have  I 
done  anything  wrong ;  I  am  so  sorry  if  I  have." 

Her  voice  had  in  it  the  grieved  tones  of  a  little  child, 
and  her  eyes  were  very  bright  with  the  tears  quivering 
on  her  long  eyelashes.  Leaning  back  in  his  chair,  with 
his  hands  clasped  behind  his  head,  a  position  he  usually 
assumed  when  puzzled  and  perplexed,  the  rector  looked 
at  her  a  moment  before  he  spoke.  He  could  not  define 
to  himself  the  nature  of  the  interest  he  took  in  Lucy 
Harcourt.  He  admired  her  greatly,  and  the  self-deniala 
•ad  generous  exertions  she  had  made  to  be  of  use  to  him 


SHOWING  HOW  IT  HAPPENED.  359 

ftinoe  Anna  went  away,  had  touched  a  tender  chord  and 
made  her  seem  very  near  to  him.  Habit  with  him  wa* 
everything,  and  the  past  two  weeks'  isolation  had  shown 
him  how  necessary  she  had  become  to  him.  She  did  not 
•atisfy  hia  higher  wants  as  Anna  Ruthven  had  done.  No 
one  could  ever  do  that,  but  she  amused  and  soothed  and 
rested  him,  and  made  his  duties  lighter  by  taking  half  of 
them  upon  herself.  That  she  was  more  attached  to  him 
than  he  could  wish  he  greatly  feared,  for  since  Captain 
Humphreys'  visit  he  had  seen  matters  differently  from 
what  ho  saw  them  before,  and  had  unsparingly  ques 
tioned  himself  as  to  how  far  he  would  be  answerable  fo* 
her  future  weal^er  woe. 

"  Guilty,  verily  I  am  guilty  in  leading  her  on  if  I 
meant  nothing  by  it,"  he  had  written  against  himself, 
pausing  in  his  sermon  to  write  it  just  as  Lucy  came  in, 
appealing  to  him  to  know  why  he  had  neglected  her  so 
long. 

She  was  very  beautiful  this  morning,  and  Arthur  fell 
his  heart  beat  rapidly  as  he  looked  at  her,  and  thought 
any  man  who  had  not  known  Anna  Ruthven  would 
be  glad  to  gather  that  bright  creature  in  his  arms  and 
know  she  was  his  own.  One  long,  long  sigh  to  the  mem 
ory  of  all  he  had  hoped  for  once, — one  bitter  pang  as 
he  remembered  Anna  and  that  twilight  hour  in  the 
church,  and  then  he  made  a  mad  plunge  in  the  dark  aad 
•aid: 


860  SHOWING  HOW  IT  HAPPENED. 

"Lucy,  do  you  know  people  are  beginnirg  to  talk 
•bout  my  seeing  you  so  much  ?  " 

"  Well,  let  them  talk ;  who  cares?  "  Lucy  replied,  with 
•  good  deal  of  asperity  of  manner  for  her,  for  that  very 
morning  the  house-keeper  at  Prospect  Hill  had  ventured 
to  remonstrate  with  her  for  "  running  after  the  parson." 
**  Pray  where  is  the  wrong  ?  What  harm  can  come  of 
it?" 

"  None,  perhaps,"  Arthur  replied,  "  if  one  could 
keep  their  affections  under  control.  But  if  either  of  us 
should  learn  to  love  the  other  very  much  and  the  love 
was  not  reciprocated,  harm  would  surely  come  of  that 
A.t  least  that  was  the  view  Captain  Humphreys  took  of 
//he  matter  when  he  was  speaking  to  me  about  it." 

There  were  red  spots  on  Lucy's  face,  but  her  lips  were 
very  white  and  the  buttons  on  her  riding-dress  rose  and 
fell  rapidly  with  the  beating  of  her  heart  as  she  looked 
steadily  at  Arthur.  Was  he  going  to  send  her  from  him, 
— back  to  the  insipid  life  she  had  lived  before  she  knew 
him  ?  It  was  too  terrible  to  believe,  and  the  great  tears 
rolled  slowly  down  her  cheeks.  Then  as  a  flash  of  pride 
came  to  her  aid,  she  dashed  them  away  and  said  to  him 
haughtily : 

"  And  so  fo"  fear  I  shall  fall  in  love  with  you,  you  are 
tacrificing  both  comfort  and  freedom,  and  shutting  your 
self  up  with  your  books  and  studies  to  the  neglect  of 
tther  duties.  But  it  need  be  so  no  longer.  The  neces- 


SHOWING  HOW  IT  HAPPENED.  361 

gity  for  it,  if  it  existed  once,  certainly  does  not  now.  I 
will  not  be  in  your  way ;  forgive  me  that  I  ever  have 
been." 

Lucy's  voice  began  to  tremble  as  she  gathered  up  her 
riding-habit  and  turned  to  find  her  gauntlets.  One  of 
them  had  dropped  upon  the  floor  between  the  table  and 
the  rector,  and  as  she  stooped  to  reach  it  her  curls  almost 
swept  the  young  man's  lap. 

"  Let  me  get  it  for  you,"  he  said,  hastily  pushing  back 
his  chair  and  awkwardly  entangling  his  foot  in  her  long 
sweeping  dress,  so  that  when  she  arose  she  stumbled  back 
ward  and  would  have  fallen,  but  for  the  arm  he  quickly 
passed  around  her. 

Something  in  the  touch  of  that  quivering  form  com 
pleted  the  work  of  temptation,  and  he  held  it  for  an  in 
stant,  when  she  said  to  him  pettishly : 

"  Please  let  me  go,  sir." 

"  No,  Liicy,  I  can't  let  you  go.  I  want  you  to  stay 
with  me." 

Instantly  the  drooping  head  was  uplifted,  and  Lucy's 
eyes  looked  into  his  with  such  a  wistful,  pleading,  won 
dering  look  that  Arthur  saw  or  thought  he  saw  his  duty 
plain,  and  gently  touching  his  lips  to  the  brow  glistening 
so  white  within  their  reach,  he  continued  : 

M  There  is  a  way  to  stop  the  gossip  and  make  it  right 
for  me  to  see  you.  Promise  to  be  my  wife,  and  not  even 

Captain  Humphreys  can  say  aught  against  it." 
16 


862  SHOWING  HOW  IT  HAPPENED. 

Arthur's  voice  trembled  now,  for  the  mention  of  Cap 
tain  Humphreys  had  brought  a  thought  of  Arm  a,  whose 
eyes  seemed  for  an  instant  to  look  reproachfully  upon 
that  wooing.  But  he  had  gone  too  far  to  retract ;  he  had 
only  to  wait  for  Lucy's  answer.  There  was  no  deception 
about  her ;  hers  was  a  nature  as  clear  as  crystal,  and  with 
a  gush  of  glad  tears  she  promised  to  be  the  rector's  wife ; 
and  hiding  her  face  on  his  bosom,  told  him,  brokenly, 
how  unworthy  she  was  of  him ;  how  foolish,  and  how  un- 
Buited  to  the  place,  but  promising  to  do  the  best  she 
could  not  to  bring  him  into  disgrace  on  account  of  her 
shortcomings. 

"  With  the  knowledge  that  you  love  me  I  can  do  any 
thing,"  she  said,  and  her  white  hand  crept  slowly  into  the 
cold,  clammy  one  which  lay  so  listlessly  on  Arthur's 
lap. 

He  was  already  repenting,  for  he  felt  that  it  was  sin 
to  take  that  warm,  trusting,  loving  heart  in  exchange  for 
the  cold,  half  lifeless  one  h"  -should  render  in  return,  and 
in  which  scarcely  a  pulse  of  joy  was  beating,  even  though 
he  held  his  promised  wife ;  and  she  was  fair  and  beautiful 
as  ever  promised  wife  could  be. 

"But  I  can  make  her  happy,  and  I  will,"  he  thought, 
pressing  the  warm  fingers  which  quivered  to  his  touch. 

But  he  did  not  kiss  her  again ;  he  could  not  for  the 
eyes,  which  still  seemed  looking  at  him.  and  asking  what 
be  did.  There  was  a  strange  spell  about  those  phantom 


SHOWING   HOW  IT  HAPPENED.  3(jg 

eyes,  and  they  made  him  say  to  Lucy,  who  was  now  sit 
ting  demurely  at  his  side  : 

"I  could  not  clear  my  conscience  if  I  did  not  confeai 
that  you  are  not  the  first  woman  whom  I  have  asked  to 
be  my  wife." 

There  was  a  start,  and  Lucy's  face  was  pale  as  ashes, 
while  her  hand  went  quickly  to  her  side,  where  the  heart 
beats  were  visible,  warning  Arthur  to  be  careful  how  he 
startled  one  whose  life  hung  on  so  slender  a  thread  as 
Lucy's ;  so,  when  she  asked,  "  Who  was  it,  and  why  did 
you  not  marry  her  ?  Did  you  love  her  very  much  ?  "  he 
answered  indifferently,  "  I  would  rather  not  tell  you  who 
it  was,  as  that  might  be  a  breach  of  confidence.  She  did 
not  care  to  be  my  wife,  and  so  that  dream  was  over  and 
I  was  left  for  you." 

He  did  not  say  how  much  he  loved  her  who  had  dis 
carded  him,  but  Lucy  forgot  the  omission,  and  asked, 
"  Was  she  very  young  and  pretty  ?  " 

"  Young  and  pretty  both,  but  not  as  beautiful  as  you,  * 
Arthur  replied,  his  fingers  softly  putting  back  the  golden 
curls  from  the  face  looking  so  trustingly  into  his. 

And  in  that  he  answered  truly.  He  had  seen  no  face 
as  beautiful  of  its  kind  as  Lucy's  was,  and  he  was  glad 
that  he  could  tell  her  so.  He  knew  how  that  would 
please  her  and  partly  make  amends  for  the  tender  wordi 
[which  he  could  not  speak, — for  the  phantom  eyes  stil 
haunting  hisa  so  strangely. 


364  SHOWING  HOW  IT  HAPPENED. 

And  Lucy,  who  took  all  things  for  granted,  was  more 
than  content,  although  she  wondered  that  he  did  not  kiss 
her  again,  and  wished  she  knew  the  girl  who  had  come  so 
near  being  in  her  place.  But  she  respected  his  wishes  too 
much  to  ask  after  what  he  had  said,  and  she  tried  to 
make  herself  glad  that  he  had  been  so  frank  with  her  and 
not  left  his  other  love-affair  to  the  chance  of  her  discov 
ering  it  afterwards,  at  a  time  when  it  might  be  painful  to 
her. 

"  I  wish  I  had  something  to  confess,"  she  thought ; 
but  from  the  score  of  her  flirtations,  and  even  offers,  for 
she  had  not  lacked  for  them,  she  could  not  find  one 
where  her  own  feelings  had  been  enlisted  in  ever  so 
slight  a  degree  until  she  remembered  Thornton  Hastings, 
who  for  one  whole  week  had  paid  her  such  attentions  as 
had  made  her  dream  of  him,  and  even  drive  round  once 
on  purpose  to  look  at  the  house  on  Madison  Square 
where  the  future  Mrs.  Hastings  was  to  live. 

But  his  coolness  afterwards,  and  his  comments  on  her 
frivolity  had  terribly  angered  her,  making  her  think  that 
she  hated  him,  as  she  had  said  to  Anna.  Now,  however, 
as  she  remembered  the  drive  and  the  house,  she  nestled 
Closer  to  Arthur  and  told  him  all  about  it,  fingeiing  the 
buttons  on  his  dressing-gown  as  she  told  him  it,  and 
never  dreaming  of  the  pang  she  was  inflicting  as  Arthur 
thought  how  mysterious  were  God's  ways,  and  wondered 
that  He  had  not  reversed  the  matter  and  given  Lucy  to 


SHOWING  HOW  IT  HAPPENED  365 

Thornton  Hastings,  rather  than  to  him,  who  did  not  hall 
deserve  her. 

"  I  know  now  I  never  cared  a  bit  for  Thornton  Hasting^ 
though  I  might  if  he  had  not  been  so  mean  as  to  call  me 
frivolous,"  Lucy  said,  as  she  arose  to  go ;  then  suddenly 
turning  to  the  rector,  she  added :  "  I  shall  never  ask  who 
your  first  love  was,  but  would  like  to  know  if  you  have 
quite  forgotten  her?  " 

"  Have  you  forgotten  Thornton  Hastings  ? "  Arthuj 
asked,  laughingly ;  and  Lucy  replied,  "Of  course  not; 
one  never  forgets,  but  I  don't  care  a  pin  about  him  now , 
and  did  I  tell  you,  Fanny  writes  that  rumor  says  he  will 
marry  Anna  Ruthven  ?  " 

"  Yes, — no, — I  did  not  know ;  I  am  not  surprised ;  '* 
and  Arthur  stooped  to  pick  up  a  book  lying  on  the  floor, 
thus  hiding  his  face  from  Lucy,  who,  woman-like,  waa 
glad  to  report  a  piece  of  gossip,  and  continued : 

"  She  is  a  great  belle,  Fanny  says ;  dresses  beautifully 
and  in  perfect  taste,  besides  talking  as  if  she  knew  some 
thing,  and  this  pleases  Mr.  Hastings,  who  takes  her  out 
fo  ride  and  drive,  and  all  this  after  I  warned  her  against 
him  and  told  her  just  what  he  said  of  me.  I  am  surprised 
at  her !  " 

Lucy  was  drawing  on  her  gauntlets,  and  Arthur  WM 
waiting  to  see  her  out,  but  she  still  lingered  on  the  thresh 
old,  and  at  last  said  to  him  : 

'*  I  wonder  you  never  fell  in  love  with  Anna  yourself 


366  SHOWING  HOW  IT  HAPPENED 

I  am  sure,  if  I  were  you  I  should  prefer  her  to  me.  Sh« 
knows  something  and  I  do  not,  but  I  am  going  to  study ; 
there  are  piles  of  books  in  the  library  at  Prospect  Hill, 
and  you  shall  see  what  a  famous  student  I  will  become. 
If  I  get  puzzled  will  you  help  me  ?  " 

tl  Yes,  willingly,"  Arthur  replied,  wishing  that  she 
would  go,  before  she  indulged  in  any  more  speculation 
as  to  why  he  did  not  love  Anna  Ruthven. 

But  Lucy  was  not  done  yet ;  the  keenest  pang  was  yet 
to  come,  and  Arthur  felt  as  if  the  earth  was  giving  way 
beneath  his  feet,  when,  as  he  lifted  her  into  the  saddle 
and  took  her  hand  at  parting,  she  said  : 

"  You  remember  I  am  not  going  to  be  jealous  of  that 
other  girl.  There  is  only  one  person  who  could  make 
me  so,  and  that  is  Anna  Ruthven ;  but  I  know  it  was  not 
she,  for  that  night  we  all  came  from  Mrs.  Hobbs's  and 
she  went  with  me  up-stairs,  I  asked  her  honestly  if  you 
had  ever  offered  yourself  to  her,  and  she  told  me  you  had 
not.  I  think  you  showed  a  lack  of  taste ;  but  I  am  glad 
it  was  not  Anna." 

Lucy  was  far  down  the  road  ere  Arthur  recovered  from 
the  shock  her  last  words  had  given  him.  What  did  it 
mean,  and  why  had  Anna  said  he  never  proposed  ?  Was 
there  some  mistake,  and  he  the  victim  of  it  ?  There  was 
a  blinding  mist  before  the  young  man's  eyes,  and  a  gnaw 
ing  pain  at  his  heart  as  he  returned  to  his  study  and 
went  over  again  with  all  the  inci  tents  of  Anna's  refusal, 


SHOWING  HOW  IT  HAPPENED.  367 

even  to  the  reading  of  the  letter  which  he  already  knew 
by  heart.  Then,  as  the  thought  came  over  him  that  pos 
sibly  Mrs.  Meredith  played  him  false  in  some  "way, 
he  groaned  aloud,  and  the  great  sweat-drops  fell  upon  the 
table  where  he  leaned  his  head.  But  this  could  not  be, 
he  reasoned.  Lucy  was  mistaken.  She  had  not  heard 
aright.  Somebody  surely  was  mistaken,  or  he  had  com 
mitted  a  fatal  error. 

"  But  I  must  abide  by  it,"  he  said,  lifting  up  his  pallid 
face.  "  God  forgive  the  wrong  I  have  done  in  asking 
Lucy  to  be  my  wife  when  my  heart  belonged  to  another. 
God  help  me  to  forget  the  one  and  love  the  other  as  I 
ought.  She  is  a  lovely  little  girl,  trusting  me  so  wholly 
that  I  can  make  her  happy, — and  I  will ! — but  Anna, — 
O  Anna!" 

It  was  a  despairing  cry,  such  as  a  newly-engaged  man 
should  never  have  sent  after  another  than  his  affianced 
bride ;  and  Arthur  thought  so  too,  fighting  back  his  first 
love  with  an  iron  will,  and  after  that  hour  of  anguish 
burying  it  so  far  from  sight  that  he  went  that  night  to 
Captain  Humphreys  and  told  of  his  engagement  ;  then 
called  upon  his  bride-elect,  and  tried  so  hard  to  be  satis 
fied,  that,  when  at  a  late  hour  he  returned  to  the  parson- 
Age,  he  was  more  than  content ;  and  by  way  of  fortifying 
himself  still  more,  wrote  the  letter  which  Thorntoi 
Hastings  read  at  Newport. 

And  that  was  how  it  happened. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

ANNA. 

THROUGH  the  rich  curtains  which  shaded  the 
windows  of  a  room  looking  out  on  Fifth  Ave 
nue  the  late  October  sun  was  shining ;  and  as 
its  red  light  played  among  the  flowers  on  the  carpet,  & 
pale  young  girl  sat  watching  it  and  thinking  of  the  Han 
over  hills,  now  decked  in  their  autumnal  glory,  and  of 
the  ivy  on  St.  Mark's,  growing  so  bright  and  beautiful 
beneath  the  autumnal  frosts.  Anna  had  been  very  sick 
since  that  morning  in  September  when  she  sat  on  the 
piazza  at  the  Ocean  House  and  read  Lucy  Harcourt's 
letter.  The  faint  was  a  precursor  of  fever,  the  physician 
said  when  summoned  to  her  aid  ;  and  in  a  tremor  of  fear 
and  distress  Mrs.  Meredith  had  had  her  removed  at  once 
to  New  York,  and  that  was  the  last  Anna  remembered. 
From  the  moment  her  aching  head  had  touched  the  soft 
pillows  in  Aunt  Meredith's  home,  all  consciousness  had 
fled,  and  for  weeks  she  had  hovered  so  near  to  death  that 
the  telegraph-wires  bore  daily  messages  to  Hanoverj 
where  the  aged  couple  who  had  cared  for  her  since  he> 
ehildhood  wept,  and  prayed,  and  watched  for  tidiagf 


ANNA.  369 

from  their  darling.  They  could  not  go  to  her,  foi 
Grandpa  Humphreys  had  broken  his  leg,  and  his  wife 
could  not  leave  him  ;  so  they  waited  with  what  patience 
they  could  for  the  daily  bulletins  which  .Mrs.  Meredith 
Bent,  appreciating  their  anxiety,  and  feeling  glad  withal 
of  anything  which  kept  them  from  New  York. 

"  She  had  best  be  prayed  for  in  church,"  the  old  man 
said ;  and  so,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  Arthur  read  th« 
prayer  for  the  sick,  his  voice  trembling  as  it  had  never 
trembled  before,  and  a  keener  sorrow  in  his  heart  than 
lie  had  ever  known  when  saying  the  solemn  words. 

Heretofore  the  persons  prayed  for  had  been  compara 
tive  strangers, — people  in  whom  he  felt  only  the  interest 
a  pastor  feels  in  all  his  flock ;  but  now  it  was  Anna, 
whose  case  he  took  to  God,  and  he  always  smothered  a 
Bob  during  the  moment  he  waited  for  the  fervent  response 
the  congregation  made,  the  Amen  which  came  from  the 
pew  where  Lucy  sat  being  louder  and  heartier  than  all 
the  rest,  and  having  in  it  a  sound  of  the  tears  which 
dropped  so  fast  on  Lucy's  book,  as  she  asked  that  her 
dear  friend  might  not  die.  Oh,  how  he  longed  to  go  to 
her !  But  this  he  could  not  do,  and  so  he  had  sent 
Lucy,  who  bent  so  tenderly  above  the  sick  girl,  whisper 
ing  loving  words  in  her  ear,  and  dropping  kisses  upon 
the  lips  which  uttered  no  response,  save  once,,  when 
Lucy  said,  "  Do  you  remember  Arthur  ?  " 

Then  they  murmured  faintly  :  "  Yes, — Arthur,  -I  r» 
16* 


870  ANNA. 

member  him,  and  the  Christmas  song,  and  the  gathering 
in  the  church.  But  that  was  long  ago ;  there's  much 
happened  since  then." 

"  And  I  am  to  marry  Arthur,"  Lucy  had  said  again , 
but  this  time  there  was  no  sign  that  she  was  understood, 
and  that  afternoon  she  went  back  to  Hanover  loaded 
with  tickets  for  the  children  of  St.  Mark's  and  new  books 
for  the  Sunday-school,  and  accompanied  by  Valencia, 
who,  having  had  a  serious  difference  with  her  mistress 
Mrs.  Meredith,  had  offered  her  services  to  Miss  Hai 
court,  and  been  at  once  accepted. 

That  was  near  the  middle  of  October ;  now  it  was  the 
/ast,  and  Anna  was  so  much  better  that  she  sat  up  for  an 
hour  or  more  and  listened  with  some  degree  of  interest 
to  what  Mrs.  Meredith  told  her  of  the  days  when  she 
lay  so  unconscious  of  all  that  was  passing  around  heij 
never  heeding  the  kindly  voice  of  Thornton  Hastings, 
who  more  than  once  had  stood  by  her  pillow  with  hia 
Hand  on  her  feverish  brow,  and  tokens  of  whose  thought- 
fulness  were  visible  in  the  choice  bouquets  he  sent  each 
day,  with  notes  of  anxious  inquiry  when  he  did  not  come 
himself.  Anna  had  not  seen  him  yet  since  her  conva 
lescence.  She  would  rather  not  see  any  one  until  strong 
enough  to  talk,  she  said.  And  so  Thornton  waited 
patiently  for  the  interview  she  had  promised  him  when 
•he  should  be  stronger,  but  every  day  he  sent  her  fruit, 
and  flowers,  and  books  which  he  thought  would  interest 


ANNA.  371 

her,  and  which  always  made  her  cheeks  grow  hot  and 
her  heart  beat  regretfully,  for  she  knew  of  the  answer 
she  must  give  him  when  he  came,  and  she  shrank  from 
wounding  him. 

"  He  is  too  good,  too  noble,  to  have  an  unwilling 
wife,"  she  thought ;  hut  that  ,did  not  make  it  the  less 
hard  to  tell  him  so,  and  when  at  last  she  was  well  enough 
to  see  him,  she  waited  his  coming  nervously,  starting 
when  she  heard  his  step,  and  trembling  like  a  leaf  as  he 
drew  near  her  chair. 

It  was  a  very  thin,  wasted  hand  which  he  took  in  his, 
holding  it  for  a  moment  between  his  own,  and  then  lay 
ing  it  gently  back  upon  her  lap.  He  had  come  for  the 
answer  to  a  question  put  six  weeks  before,  and  Anna 
gave  it  to  him, — kindly,  considerately,  but  decidedly. 
She  could  not  be  his  wife,  she  said,  because  she  did  not 
love  him  as  he  ought  to  be  loved. 

"  It  is  nothing  personal,"  she  added,  working  ner 
vously  at  the  heavy  fringe  of  her  shawl.  "I  respect  you 
more  than  any  man  I  ever  knew, — except  one  ;  and  had 
I  met  you  years  ago, — before — before — " 

"I  understand  you,"  Thornton  said,  coming  to  her 
aid.  "  You  have  tried  to  love  me,  but  you  cannot,  be 
cause  your  affections  are  given  to  another." 

Anna  bowed  her  head  in  silence  ;  then,  after  a  moment, 
ihe  continu  :d : 

"  You  must  forgive  me,  Mr.  Hastings,  for  not  telling 


872  AJWA. 

you  this  at  once.  I  did  not  know  then  but  I  could  lov» 
you ;  at  least,  I  meant  to  try,  for  you  see  this  other  one," 
— the  fingers  got  terribly  tangled  in  the  fringe  as  Anna 
gasped  for  breath  and  went  on, — "  he  does  not  know, 
and  never  will, — that  is, — he  never  cared  for  me,  nor 
guessed  how  foolish  I  was  to  give  him  my  love  un 
sought." 

"  Then  it  is  not  Arthur  Leighton,  and  that  is  why  you 
refused  him  too,"  Mr.  Hastings  said  involuntarily ;  and 
Anna  looked  quickly  up,  her  cheeks  growing  paler  than 
they  were  before,  as  she  replied :  "  I  don't  know  what 
you  mean.  I  never  refused  Mr.  Leighton, — never ! " 

"You  never  refused  Mr.  Leighton?"  Thornton  ex 
claimed,  forgetting  all  discretion  in  his  surprise  at  thi» 
flat  contradiction.  "  I  have  Arthur's  word  for  it,  writ 
ten  to  me  last  June,  while  Mrs.  Meredith  was  there,  I 
think." 

"  He  surely  could  not  have  meant  it,  because  it  never 
occurred ;  there  is  some  mistake,"  Anna  found  strength 
to  say ;  and  then  she  lay  back  in  her  easy-chair  panting 
for  breath,  her  brain  all  in  a  whirl  as  she  thought  of  the 
possibility  that  she  was  once  so  near  the  greatest  happi 
ness  she  had  ever  desired,  and  which  was  lost  to  her 
now. 

He  brought  her  smelling-salts ;  he  gave  her  ice-water 
to  drink,  and  then,  kneeling  beside  her,  he  fanned  her 
gently,  while  he  continued :  "  There  surely  it  a  mistake. 


ANNA.  373 

and,  I  fear,  a  great  wrong,  too,  somewhere.  Were  all 
your  servants  trusty  ?  Was  there  no  one  who  would 
withhold  a  letter  if  he  had  written  ?  Were  you  always 
at  home  when  he  called  ?  " 

Thornton  questioned  her  rapidly,  for  there  was  a  sus 
picion  in  his  mind  as  to  the  real  culprit,  but  he  would 
not  hint  it  to  Anna  unless  she  suggested  it  herself.  And 
this  she  was  not  likely  to  do.  Mrs.  Meredith  had  been 
too  kind  to  her  during  the  past  summer,  and  especially 
during  her  recent  illness,  to  allow  of  such  a  thought  con 
cerning  her ;  and  in  a  maze  of  perplexity  she  replied  to 
his  inquiries  :  "  We  keep  but  one  servant, — Esther, — and 
she  I  know  is  trusty.  Besides,  who  could  have  refused 
him  for  me  ?  Grandfather  would  not,  I  know,  becaust 
— because — "  she  hesitated  a  little,  and  her  cheeki 
blushed  scarlet  as  she  added,  "  I  sometimes  thought  he 
wanted  it  to  be." 

If  Thornton  had  previously  had  a  doubt  as  to  the  other 
man  who  stood  between  himself  and  Anna,  that  doubt  was 
now  removed,  and  laying  aside  all  thoughts  of  self,  he 
exclaimed : 

"  I  tell  you  there  is  a  great  wrong  somewhere.  Arthur 
Dover  told  an  untruth ;  he  thought  that  you  refut  .id  him ; 
ce  thinks  so  still,  and  I  shall  never  rest  till  I  ha>a  solved 
the  mystery.  I  will  write  to  him  to-day." 

For  an  instant  there  swept  over  Anna  a  feeling  of  un 
utterable  joy  as  she  thought  what  the  eud  might  be ;  then, 


874  ANNA. 

AS  she  remembered  Lucy,  her  heart  seemed  to  stop  its  beat* 
ing,  and  with  a  moan  she  stretched  her  hands  towards 
Thornton,  who  had  risen  as  if  to  leave  her. 

"  No,  no,  you  must  not  interfere,"  she  said.  "  It  is 
too  late,  too  late.  Don't  you  remember  Lucy  ?  don't  you 
know  she  is  to  be  his  wife  ?  Lucy  must  not  be  sacrificed 
for  me.  JTcan  bear  it  the  best." 

She  knew  she  had  betrayed  her  secret,  and  she  tried  to 
take  it  back,  but  Thornton  interrupted  her  with,  "  Never 
mind  now,  Anna.  I  guessed  it  all  before,  and  it  hurts 
my  self-pride  less  to  know  that  it  is  Arthur  whom  you 
prefer  to  me.  1  do  not  blame  you  for  it." 

He  smoothed  her  hair  pityingly,  while  he  stood  over 
her  a  moment,  wondering  what  his  duty  was.  Anna  told 
him  plainly  what  it  was.  He  must  leave  Arthur  and 
Lucy  alone.  She  insisted  upon  having  it  so,  and  he  prom 
ised  her  at  last  that  he  would  not  interfere.  Then  tak 
ing  her  hand,  he  pressed  it  a  moment  between  his  own  and 
went  out  from  her  presence.  In  the  hall  below  he  met 
with  Mrs.  Meredith,  who  he  knew  was  waiting  anxiously 
to  hear  the  result  of  that  long  interview. 

"  Your  niece  will  never  be  my  wife,  and  I  am  satisfied 
to  have  it  so,"  he  said ;  then,  as  he  saw  the  lowering  of 
her  brov,  he  continued,  "  I  have  long  suspected  that  she 
loved  another,  and  my  suspicions  are  confirmed,  though 
tiiere's  something  I  cannot  understand,"  and  fixing  his 
•jree  searchingly  upon  Mrs.  Meredith,  he  told  what  Arthur 


A2TNA.  375 

had  written  and  of  Anna's  denial  of  the  sama.  "  Some 
body  played  her  false,"  he  said,  rather  enjoying  the  look 
of  terror  and  shame  which  crept  into  the  haughty  woman'i 
eyes,  as  she  tried  to  appear  natural  and  express  her  own 
surprise  at  what  she  heard. 

"  I  was  right  in  my  conjecture,"  Thornton  thought  as  he 
took  his  leave  of  Mrs.  Meredith,  who  could  not  face  Anna 
then,  but  paced  restlessly  up  and  down  her  spacious 
rooms,  wondering  how  much  Thornton  suspected,  and  what 
the  end  would  be. 

She  had  sinned  for  naught;  Anna  had  upset  all  her 
Cherished  plans,  and  could  she  have  gone  back  for  a  few 
months  and  done  her  work  again,  she  would  have  left  the 
letter  lying  where  she  found  it.  But  that  could  not  be 
now.  She  must  reap  as  she  had  sown,  and  resolving 
finally  to  hope  for  the  best  and  abide  the  result,  she  went 
up  to  Anna,  who,  having  no  suspicion  of  her,  hurt  her 
ten  times  more  cruelly,  by  the  perfect  faith  with  which  she 
confided  the  story  to  her,  than  bitter  reproaches  would 
have  done. 

"  I  know  you  wanted  me  to  marry  Mr.  Hastings," 
Anna  said,  "  and  I  would  if  I  could  have  done  so  con 
scientiously,  but  I  could  not,  for  I  may  confess  it  now  to 
you.  I  did  love  Arthur  so  much,  and  I  hoped  that  he 
loved  me." 

The  cold,  hard  woman,  who  had  brought  this  grief  upon 
her  niece,  could  only  answer  that  it  did  not  matter.  Sht 


87«  ANNA. 

was  not  very  sorry,  although  she  had  wanted  her  to 
marry  Mr.  Hastings,  but  she  must  not  fret  about  that 
now,  or  about  anything.  She  would  be  better  by  and  by, 
and  forget  that  she  ever  cared  for  Arthur  Leighton. 

"  At  least,"  and  she  spoke  entreatingly  now,  "  you  will 
not  demean  yourself  to  let  him  know  of  the  mistake.  •  It 
would  scarcely  be  womanly,  and  he  may  have  gotten  ove~ 
it.  Present  circumstances  seem  to  prove  as  much." 

Mrs.  Meredith  felt  now  that  her  secret  was  compara 
tively  safe,  and  with  her  spirits  lighter  she  kissed  her 
niece  lovingly  and  told  her  of  a  trip  to  Europe  which  she 
had  in  view,  promising  that  Anna  should  go  with  her, 
and  so  not  be  at  home  when  the  marriage  of  Arthur  and 
Lucy  took  place. 

It  was  appointed  for  the  loth  of  January,  that  being 
the  day  when  Lucy  came  of  age,  and  the  very  afternoon 
succeeding  Anna's  interview  with  Mr.  Hastings  the  little 
lady  came  down  to  New  York  to  direct  about  her  bridal 
trousseau  making,  in  the  city.  She  was  brimming  ovci 
with  happiness  and  her  face  was  a  perfect  gleam  of  sun 
shine,  when  she  came  next  day  to  Anna's  room,  and 
throwing  off  her  wrappings  plunged  at  once  into  the  sub 
ject  uppermost  in  her  thoughts,  telling  first  how  she  a»d 
Arthur  had  quarrelled, — "not  quarrelled  as  uncle  and 
aunt  Hetherton  and  lots  of  people  do,  but  differed  so  seri 
ously  that  I  cried  and  had  to  give  up,  too,"  she  said.  "  I 
wanted  you  for  bridesmaid,  and  do  you  think,  he  objected; 


ANNA.  377 

not  objected  to  you,  but  to  bridesmaids  generally,  and 
he  carried  his  point,  so  that  we  are  just  to  stand  up  stifl 
and  straight  alone,  except  as  you'll  all  be  round  me  in 
the  aisle.  You'll  be  well  by  that  time,  and  I  want  you 
very  near  to  me,"  Lucy  said,  squeezing  the  icy  hand, 
whose  coldness  made  her  start  and  exclaim,  "  Why, 
Anna,  how  cold  you  are,  and  how  pale  you  are  looking. 
STou  have  been  so  sick,  and  I  am  so  well ;  it  don't  seem 
quite  right,  does  it  ?  And  Arthur,  too,  is  so  thin  that  I 
nave  coaxed  him  to  raise  whiskers  to  cover  the  hollows  in 
bis  cheeks.  He  looks  a  heap  better  now,  though  he  was 
always  handsome.  I  do  so  wonder  that  you  two  never 
fell  in  love,  and  I  tell  him  so  most  every  time  I  see  him, 
for  I  always  think  of  you  then." 

It  was  terrible  to  Anna  to  sit  and  hear  all  this,  and 
the  room  grew  dark  as  she  listened,  but  she  forced  back 
her  pain,  and  stroking  the  curly  head  almost  resting  on 
her  lap,  and  said  kindly,  "  You  love  him  very  much,  don't 
you,  darling, — so  much  that  it  would  be  hard  to  give  him 
up?" 

*'  Yes,  oh  yes,  I  could  not  give  him  up  now,  except  to 
God.  I  trust  I  could  do  that,  though  once  I  could  not,  I 
am  sure,"  and  nestling  closer  to  Anna,  Lucy  whispered 
to  her  of  the  hope  that  she  was  better  than  she  used  to 
be, — that  daily  intercourse  with  Artlmr  had  not  been 
'without  its  effect,  and  now  she  believed  she  tried  to  d« 
right  from  a  higher  motive  than  just  to  please  him. 


378 

"  God  bless  you,  darling,"  was  Anna's  response,  as  she 
clasped  the  hand  of  the  young  girl,  who  was  now  far  mora 
worthy  to  be  Arthur's  wife  than  once  she  had  been. 

If  Anna  had  ever  had  a  thought  of  telling  Arthur,  it 
would  have  been  put  aside  by  that  interview  with  Lucy. 
Sie  could  not  harm  that  pure,  loving,  trusting  girl,  and 
she  sent  her  from  her  with  a  kiss  and  a  blessing,  praying 
vlently  that  she  might  never  know  a  shadow  of  the  pain 
she  wat  Buffering. 


CHAPTER  X. 

MBS.  MEREDITH'S  CONSCIENCE. 

had  one  years  before,  but  since  the  summer 
day  when  she  sent  from  her  the  white-faced 
man,  whose  heart  she  knew  she  had  broken,  it 
had  been  hardening, — searing  over  with  a  stiff  crust  which 
nothing,  it  seemed,  could  penetrate.  And  yet  there  wera 
times  when  she  was  softened  and  wished  that  much  which 
she  had  done  might  be  blotted  out  from  the  great  book 
in  which  even  she  believed.  There  was  many  a  misdeed 
recorded  there  against  her,  she  knew,  and  occasionally 
there  stole  over  her  a  strange  disquietude  as  to  how  she 
stould  confront  them  when  they  all  came  up  before  her. 
"Usually  she  could  cast  such  thoughts  aside  by  a  drive 
down  gay  Broadway,  or  at  most  by  a  call  at  Stewart's, 
but  the  sight  of  Anna's  white  face  and  the  knowing 
what  made  it  so  white  were  a  constant  reproach,  and  con 
science  gradually  wakened  from  its  torpor,  enough  to 
whisper  of  the  only  restitution  in  her  power,  that  of  con 
fession  to  Arthur.  But  from  this  she  shrank  nervously. 
She  could  not  humble  herself  thus  to  any  one,  and  sh« 
would  not  either,  she  said.  Then  came  the  fear  lest  by 


880  MRS-  MEREDITH'S  CONSCIENCE. 

another  than  herself  her  guilt  should  come  to  light.  What 
if  Thornton  Hastings  should  find  her  out  ?  She  >vas  half 
afraid  he  suspected  her  now,  and  that  gave  her  the  heav 
iest  pang  of  all,  for  she  respected  Thornton  highly,  and  ii 
would  cost  her  much  to  lose  his  good  opinion.  She  had 
lost  him  for  her  niece,  but  she  could  not  spare  him  from 
herself,  and  so  in  sad  perplexity,  which  wore  upon  her 
visibly,  the  autumn  days  went  on  until  at  last  she  sat 
one  morning  in  her  dressing-room  and  read  in  a  foreign 
paper : 

"  Died  at  Strasburg,  Aug.  31st,  Edward  Coleman,  Esq, 
aged  46." 

That  was  all,  but  the  paper  dropped  from  the  trem 
bling  hands,  and  the  proud  woman  of  the  world  bowed 
her  head  upon  the  cold  marble  of  the  table  and  wept 
aloud.  She  was  not  Mrs.  Meredith  now,  she  was  Julia 
Ruthven  again,  and  she  stood  with  Edward  Coleman  out 
in  the  grassy  orchard  where  the  apple-blossoms  were 
dropping  from  the  trees,  and  the  air  was  full  of  the  in 
sects'  hum  and  the  song  of  mating  birds.  Many  years 
had  passed  since  then.  She  was  iae  wealthy  Mrs.  Mere 
dith  now,  and  he  was  dead  in  Strasburg.  He  had  been 
true  to  her  to  the  last,  for  he  had  never  married,  and 
those  who  had  met  him  abroad  had  brought  back  the 
Bame  report  of  a  "  white-haired  man,  old  before  his  timeg 
and  with  a  tired,  sad  look  on  his  face."  That  look  she 
had  written  thsre,  and  she  wept  on  as  she  recalled  the 


MRS  MEREDITH'S  CONSCIENCE.  381 

past  and  murmured  softly :  "  Poor  Edward,  I  loved  yoa 
all  the  while,  but  I  sold  myself  for  gold,  and  it  turned 
your  brown  locks  snowy  white, — poor  darling, — "  ana 
her  hands  moved  up  and  down  the  folds  of  her  cashmere 
robe  as  if  it  were  the  brown  locks  they  were  smoothing 
JRst  as  they  used  to  do.  Then  came  a  thought  of  Anna 
\rho«e  face  wore  much  the  look  which  Edward's  did 
when  he  went  slowly  from  the  orchard  and  left  her  there 
alone  with  the  apple-blossoms  dropping  on  her  head,  and 
the  hum  of  the  bees  in  her  ear. 

ft  I  can  at  least  do  right  in  that  respect,"  she  said. 
*'  I  can  undo  the  past  to  some  extent  and  lessen  the  load 
of  sin  upon  my  shoulders.  I  will  write  to  Arthur 
Leighton;  I  surely  need  tell  no  one  else, — not  yet,  at 
least,  lest  he  has  outlived  his  love  for  Anna.  I  can 
trust  to  his  discretion  and  to  his  honor  too ;  he  will  not 
betray  me,  unless  it  is  necessary,  and  then  only  to  Anna. 
Edward  would  bid  me  do  it  if  he  could  speak ;  he  was 
Kome  like  Arthur  Leighton." 

And  so  with  the  dead  man  in  Strasburg  before  her 
eyes,  Mrs.  Meredith  nerved  herself  to  write  to  Arthur 
Leighton,  confessing  the  fraud  imposed  upon  him,  im 
ploring  his  forgiveness,-  and  begging  him  to  spare  her  ai 
much  as  possible. 

"  I  knDw  from  Anna's  own  lips  how  much  she  has 
always  l)ved  you,"  she  wrote  in  conclusion,  "but  she 
does  not  know  of  th  3  stolen  letter,  and  I  leave  you  to 


382  MRB-  MEREDITH'8  CONSCIENCE. 

make  such  use   of  the  knowledge  as  you  shall   think 
proper." 

She  did  not  put  in  a  single  plea  for  poor  little  Lucy 
dancing  so  gayly  over  the  mine  just  ready  to  explode. 
She  was  purely  selfish  still  with  all  her  qualms  of  con 
science,  and  only  thought  of  Anna,  whom  she  would 
make  happy  at  another's  sacrifice.  So  she  never  hintei 
that  it  was  possible  for  Arthur  to  keep  his  word  pledged 
to  Lucy  Harcourt,  and  as  she  finished  her  own  letter  and 
placed  it  in  an  envelope  with  the  one  which  Arthur  had 
sent  to  Anna,  her  thoughts  leaped  forward  to  the  wed 
ding  she  would  give  her  niece, — a  wedding  not  quite  lik* 
that  sbe  had  designed  for  Mrs.  Thornton  Hastings,  bu^ 
a  quiet,  elegant  affair,  just  suited  to  a  clergyman 
marrying  a  Ruthven. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE   LETTER   RECEIVED. 

IjllTHTJR  had  been  spending  the  evening  at 
Prospect  hill.  The  Hethertons  were  there 
now,  and  would  remain  till  after  the  15th ; 
and  since  they  came  the  rector  had  found  it  even  pleas- 
Miter  calling  there  than  it  had  been  before  with  only  hi» 
bride-elect  to  entertain  him.  Sure  of  Mr.  Bellamy, 
Fanny  had  laid  aside  her  sharpness  and  was  exceedingly 
witty  and  brilliant,  while,  now  that  it  was  settled,  the 
colonel  was  too  thorough  a  gentleman  to  be  otherwise 
than  gracious  to  his  future  nephew,  and  Mrs.  Hetherton 
was  always  polite  and  ladylike,  so  that  the  rector  looked 
forward  with  a  good  deal  of  interest  to  the  evenings  ha 
usually  gave  to  Lucy,  who,  though  satisfied  to  have  him 
in  her  sight,  stiU  preferred  the  olden  time  when  she  had 
him  all  to  herself,  and  was  not  disquieted  with  the  fear 
that  she  vras  not  learned  enough  for  him,  as  she  often 
*ras  when  she  heard  him  talking  with  Fanny  and  her 
incle  of  things  she  did  not  understand.  This  evening, 
feowe^er,  the  family  were  away  and  slie  received  him 
alone,  trying  so  hard  to  come  up  to  LU  capacity,  talking 


384  TEE  LETTER  RECEIVED. 

BO  intelligibly  of  the  books  she  had  been  reading,  and 
looking  so  lovely  in  her  crimson  winter  dress,  besides 
being  so  sweetly  affectionate  and  confiding  that  for  once 
ttnce  his  engagement  Arthur  was  more  than  content,  and 
returned  her  modest  caresses  with  a  warmth  he  had  not 
fell,  before.  He  was  learning  to  love  her  very  much,  he 
thought,  and  when  at  last  he  took  his  leave  and  she  went 
witli  him  to  the  door  there  was  an  unwonted  tenderness 
in  his  manner  as  he  pushed  her  gently  back,  for  the  first 
snow  of  the  season  was  falling  and  the  large  flakes 
ilropped  upon  her  hair,  from  which  he  brushed  them  care 
fully  away. 

"  I  cannot  let  my  darling  take  cold,"  he  said,  and 
Lucy  felt  a  strange  thrill  of  joy,  for  never  before  had  he 
ealled  her  his  darling,  and  sometimes  she  had  feared  that 
the  love  she  received  was  not  as  great  as  the  love  she 
gave. 

But  she  did  not  think  so  now,  and  in  an  ecstasy  of  joy 
she  stood  in  the  deep  recess  of  the  bay-window  watching 
him  as  he  went  away  through  the  moonlight  and  the 
feathery  cloud  of  snow,  wondering  why,  when  she  was  so 
happy,  there  should  cling  to  her  a  haunting  presentiment 
that  she  and  Arthur  would  never  meet  again  just  as  they 
had  parted.  Arthur,  on  the  contrary,  was  troubled  with 
ao  such  presentiment.  Of  Anna  he  hardly  thought,  orfl 
If  he  did,  the  vision  was  obscured  by  the  fair  picture  he 
had  senn  standing  in  the  door  with  the  snow-flakes  resting 


TEE  LETTER  REUE1VED.  385 

on  its  hair  like  pearls  in  a  golden  cabinet.  And  Arthur 
thanked  his  God  that  he  was  beginning  at  last  to  feel 
right,  that  the  solemn  vows  he  was  so  soon  to  utter 
would  not  be  a  mockery.  It  was  Arthur's  wish  to  teach 
to  others  how  dark  and  mysterious  are  the  -ways  of  Provi 
dence,  but  he  Iiad  not  himself  half  learned  that  lesson 
in  all  its  strange  reality ;  but  the  lesson  was  coming  on 
apace ;  each  stride  of  his  swift-footed  beast  brought  him 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  great  shock  waiting  for  him 
upon  his  study -table,  where  his  man  had  put  it.  He  saw 
tt  the  first  thing  on  entering  the  room,  but  he  did  not 
take  it  up  until  the  snow  was  brushed  from  his  garments 
and  he  had  seated  himself  by  the  cheerful  fire  blazing  on 
the  hearth.  Then  sitting  in  his  easy-chair  and  moving 
the  lamp  nearer  to  him,  he  took  Mrs.  Meredith's  letter 
and  broke  the  seal,  starting  as  if  a  serpent  had  stung 
him  when  in  the  note  enclosed  he  recognized  his  own 
handwriting,  the  same  he  had  sent  to  Anna  when  his 
heart  was  as  full  of  hope  as  the  brown  stalks,  now  beat 
ing  against  his  windows  with  a  dismal  sound,  were  full 
of  fragrant  blossoms.  Both  had  died  since  then,  the 
roses  and  his  hopes,  and  Arthur  almost  wished  that  he, 
too,  were  dead  when  he  read  Mrs.  Meredith's  letter  and 
saw  the  gulf  he  was  treading.  Like  the  waves  of  the 
sea  his  love  for  Anna  came  rolling  back  upon  him,  aug- 
meated  and  intensified  by  all  that  he  had  suffered,  and 

by  the  terrible  conviction  that  it  could  not  be,  although, 
17 


886  THE  LETTER  RECEIVED. 

alas,  "  it  might  have  been."  He  repeated  these  wordt 
over  and  over  again,  as,  stupefied  with  pain,  he  sat  gazing 
at  vacancy,  thinking  how  true  was  the  couplet : 

"  Of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 
The  saddest  are  these, — it  might  have  been." 

He  could  not  pray  at  first,  his  brain  was  so  confused ; 
but  when  the  white,  quivering  lips  could  move  and  the 
poor  aching  heart  could  pray,  he  only  whispered  :  "  God 
help  me  to  do  right,"  and  by  that  prayer  he  knew  that 
for  a  single  instant  there  had  crept  across  his  mind  the 
possibility  of  sacrificing  Lucy,  the  girl  who  loved  and 
trusted  him  so  much;  but  only  for  an  instant.  He 
would  not  cast  her  from  him,  though  to  take  her  now 
knowing  what  he  did,  was  almost  death  itself.  "  Bui 
God  can  help  me,  and  he  will,"  he  cried, — then  falling 
upon  his  knees,  with  his  face  bowed  to  the  floor,  the 
rector  of  St.  Mark's  prayed  as  he  had  never  prayed  be 
fore,  first  for  himself,  whose  need  was  greatest,  then  for 
Lucy,  that  she  might  never  know  what  making  her  happy 
had  cost  him,  and  then  for  Anna,  whose  name  he  could 
not  speak.  "That  other  one,"  he  called  her,  and  his 
heart  kept  swelling  in  his  throat  and  preventing  his 
utterance  so  that  the  words  he  would  say  never  reached 
bis  lips.  But  God  heard  them  just  the  same,  and  knew 
bis  child  was  asking  that  Anna  might  forget  him,  if  to 
remember  him  was  pain, — that  she  might  learn  to  lov* 


THE  LETTER  RECEIVED.  387 

another  far  worthier  than  he  had  ever  been.  He  did 
not  thine  of  Mrs.  Meredith  ;  he  had  no  feeling  o  f  resent 
ment  then ;  he  was  too  wholly  crushed  to  care  how  hi* 
ruin  had  been  brought  about,  and  long  after  the  wood- 
Ore  on  the  hearth  had  turned  to  cold,  gray  ashes,  he  knelt 
upon  the  floor  and  battled  with  his  grief ;  and  when  the 
morning  oroke  it  found  him  still  in  the  cheerless  room, 
where  he  had  passed  the  entire  night  and  from  which  he 
went  forth  strengthened  as  he  hoped  to  do  what  he  fully 
believed  to  be  his  duty. 

This  was  on  Saturday,  and  the  Sunday  following  there 
was  no  service  at  St.  Mark's.  The  rector  was  sick,  the 
sexton  said,  hard  sick,  too,  he  had  heard,  and  the  Heth- 
erton  carriage  with  Lucy  in  it  drove  swiftly  to  the  par 
sonage,  where  the  quiet  and  solitude  awed  and  frightened 
her  as  she  entered  the  house  and  asked  the  housekeeper 
how  Mr.  Leighton  was. 

"  It  is  very  sudden,"  she  said.  "  He  was  perfectly  well 
when  he  left  me  on  Friday  night.  Please  tell  him  I  am 
here." 

The  housekeeper  shook  her  head.  Her  master's  orders 
were  that  no  one  but  the  doctor  should  be  admitted,  she 
said,  repeating  what  Arthur  had  told  her  in  anticipation 
of  jxist  such  an  infliction  as  this.  But  Lucy  was  not  to 
be  denied ;  Arthur  was  hers  ;  his  sickness  was  hers  ;  his 
pilfering  was  hers,  and  see  him  she  would. 

"  He  surely  did  not  mean  me,  when  he  asked  that  n* 


388  TEJS  LETTER  RECEIVED. 

one  should  be  admitted.  Tell  him  it  is  I ;  it  is  Lucy,* 
she  said,  will  an  air  of  authority,  which  in  one  so  smalL 
so  pretty,  emft  so  childish  only  amused  Mrs.  Brown,  who 
departed  with  the  message,  while 'Lucy  sat  down  with  her 
feet  upon  the  stove  and  looked  around  the  sitting-room, 
thinking  that  it  was  smaller  and  poorer  than  the  one  at 
Prospect  Hill,  and  how  she  would  remodel  it  when  she 

was  mistress  there. 

• 

"  He  says  yoir  can  come,"  was  the  word  Mrs.  Brown 
brought  back,  and  with  a  gleam  of  triumph  in  her  eye  and 
a  toss  of  the  head  which  said,  "  I  told  you  so,"  LUC^T 
went  softly  into  the  darkened  room  and  shut  the  door  be 
hind  her. 

Arthur  had  half  expected  this  and  had  nerved  himself  to 
meet  it,  but  the  cold  sweat  stood  on  his  face  and  his  heart 
throbbed  painfully  as  Lucy  bent  over  him  and  said, "  Poor, 
dear  Arthur,  I  am  so  sorry  for  you,  and  if  I  could  I'd 
bear  the  pain  so  willingly." 

He  knew  she  would ;  she  was  just  as  loving  and  un 
selfish  as  that,  and  he  wound  his  arms  around  her  and 
drew  her  closer  to  him,  while  he  whispered,  "  My  poor 
little  Lucy,  my  poor  little  Lucy.  I  don't  deserve  this 
from  you." 

She  did  not  know  what  he  meant,  and  she  only  an 
swered  him  with  kisses,  while  her  hands  moved  caressingly 
Across  his  forehead,  just  as  they  had  moved  years  ago  in 
Rome  when  she  soothed  the  pain  away.  There  certainly 


THE  LETTER  RECEIVED.  389 

was  a  mesmeric  influence  emanating  from  those  Lands, 
and  Arthur  felt  its  power,  growing  very  quiet  and  at  last 
falling  away  to  sleep  while  the  passes  went  on,  and  Lucj 
held  her  breath  lest  she  should  waken  him.  She -was  a 
famous  nurse,  the  physician  said,  when  he  came,  and  he 
constituted  her  his  coadjutor  and  gave  his  patient's  medi 
cine  into  her  care. 

It  was  hardly  proper  for  her  niece  to  stay  at  the  reo 
tory,  Mrs.  Hetherton  thought,  but  Lucy  was  one  whc 
could  trample  down  proprieties,  and  it  was  finally  ar 
ranged  that,  in  order  to  avoid  all  comment,  Fanny  should 
stay  with  her. 

So,  while  Fanny  went  to  bed  and  slept  Lucy  sat  aL 
night  in  the  sick-room  with  Mrs.  Brown,  and  when  the 
next  morning  came  she  was  looking  very  pale,  and  lan 
guid,  but  very  beautiful  withal.  At  least  such  was  the 
mental  compliment  paid  her  by  Thornton  Hastings,  who 
was  passing  through  Hanover  and  stopped  over  a  train  to 
see  his  old  college  friend  and  perhaps  tell  him  what  Le 
began  to  feel  it  was  his  duty  to  tell  him  in  spite  of  his 
promise  to  Anna.  She  was  nearly  well  now  and  had 
driven  with  him  twice  to  the  park,  but  he  could  not  be 
insensible  to  what  she  suffered,  or  how  she  shrank  from 
hearing  the  proposed  weildiug  discussed,  and  in  his  in 
tense  pity  for  her  he  had  half  resolved  to  break  his  word 
and' tell  Arthur  what  n"e  knew.  But  h'e  changed  his  mind 
when  he  had  been  in  Hanover  a  few  hours  and  watched 


390  THE  LETTER  RECEIVED. 

• 

the  little  fairy,  who,  lite  some  ministering  angel,  glided 
about  the  sick-room,  showing  herself  every  \vhit  a  woman^ 
and  making  him  repent  that  he  had  ever  called  her  frivo 
lous  or  silly.  She  was  not  either,  he  said,  and  with  a 
magnanimity  for  which  he  thought  himself  entitled  to  a 
good  deal  of  praise,  he  felt  that  it  was  very  possible  for 
Arthur  to  love  the  gentle  little  girl  who  smoothed  his  pil 
lows  so  tenderly,  and  whose  fingers  threaded  so  lovingly  the 
dark  brown  locks  when  she  thought  he — Thornton — was 
not  looking  on.  She  was  very  coy  oihim,  and  very  distant 
towards  him,  for  she  had  not  forgotten  his  sin,  and  she 
treated  him  at  first  with  a  reserve  for  which  he  could  not 
account.  But  as  the  days  went  on  and  Arthur  grew  so 
sick  that  his  parishioners  began  to  tremble  for  their  young 
minister's  life,  and  to  fhink  it  perfectly  right  for  Lucy  to 
stay  with  him  even  if  she  was  assisted  in  her  labor  of  love 
by  the  stranger  from  New  York,  the  reserve  all  disap 
peared,  and  on  the  most  perfect  terms  of  amity  she  and 
Thornton  Hastings  watched  together  by  Arthur's  side. 

Thornton  Hastings  learned  more  lessons  than  one  in 
that  sick-room  where  Arthur's  faith  in  God  triumphed 
Vver  the  terrors  of  the  grave  which  at  one  time  seemed 
BO  near,  while  the  timid  Lucy,  whom  he  had  only  known 
as  a  gay  butterfly  of  fashion,  dared  before  him  to  pray 
that  God  would  spare  her  promised  husband,  or  give  her 
g  ace  to  say  "  Thy  will  be  done."  Thornton  could  hardly 
»  f  that  he  was  skeptical  before,  but  any  doubts  he  might 


THE  LETTER  RECEIVED.  391 

• 

have  had  touching  the  great  fundamental  truths  on  whici 
a  true  religion  rests  were  gone  forever,  and  he  left  Han 
over  a  changed  man  in  more  respects  than  one. 

Arthur  did  not  die,  and  on  the  Sunday  preceding  the 
week  when  the  Christmas  decorations  were  to  commence 
he  came  again  before  his  people,  his  face  very  pale  and 
worn,  and  wearing  upon  it  a  look  which  told  of  a  new 
baptism, — an  added  amount  of  faith  which  had  helped  to 
Vft  him  above  the  fleeting  cares  of  this  present  life.  And 
«ret  there  was  much  of  earth  clinging  to  him  still,  and  it 
made  itself  felt  in  the  rapid  beatings  of  his  heart  when  he 
glanced  towards  the  pew  where  Lucy  knelt  and  knew  that 
she  was  giving  thanks  for  him  restored  again. 

Once  in  the  earlier  stages  of  his  convalescence  he  had 
almost  betrayed  his  secret  by  asking  her  which  she  would 
rather  do,  bury  him  from  her  sight,  feeling  that  he  loved 
her  to  the  last,  or  give  him  to  another  now  that  she  knew 
he  would  recover. 

There  was  a  frightened  look  in  Lucy's  eyes  as  she  re 
plied  : 

"  I  would  ten  thousand  times  rather  see  you  dead,  and 
know  that  even  in  death  you  were  my  own,  than  to  lose 
yoxi  that  other  way.  O  Arthur,  you  have  no  thought  of 
leaving  me  now  ?  " 

"  No,  darling,  I  have  not.  I  am  yours  always,"  he 
•aid,  feeling  that  the  compact  was  sealed  forever,  and  thai 
God  blessed  the  sealing. 


392  THE  LETTER  RECEIVED. 

• 

He  had  written  to  Mrs.  Meredith,  granting  her  his  for 
giveness,  and  asking  that  if  Anna  did  not  already  know 
of  the  deception  she  might  never  be  enlightened.  And 
Mrs.  Meredith  had  answered  that  Anna  had  only  heard 
a  rumor  that  an  offer  had  been  made  her,  but  that  she 
regarded  it  as  a  mistake,  and  was  fast  recovering  both  her 
health  and  spirits.  Mrs.  Meredith  did  not  add  her  sur 
prise  at  Arthur's  conscientiousness  in  adhering  to  his  en 
gagement,  nor  hint  that  her  attack  of  conscience  was  so 
safely  over  ;  she  was  glad  of  it,  for  she  still  had  hope  of  tha* 
house  on  Madison  Square;  but  Arthur  guessed  at  it  and 
dismissed  her  from  his  mind,  and  waited  with  a  trusting 
heart  for  •whatever  the  future  might  bring. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

VALENCIA. 

|ER  Y  extensive  preparations  were  making  at  Pro* 
pect  Hill  for.  the  double  wedding  to  occur  on  trie 
15th  of  January.  After  much  debate  and  CCA- 
sultation,  Fanny  had  decided  to  take  Mr.  Bellamy  then, 
and  thus  she,  too,  shared  largely  in  the  general  interest 
and  excitement  which  pervaded  everything.  Both  brides- 
elect  were  very  happy,  but  in  a  widely  different  way,  foi 
while  Fanny  was  quiet  and  undemonstrative  Lucy  seemed 
wild  with  joy  and  danced  gayly  about  the  house,  now  in 
the  kitchen,  where  the  cake  was  made,  now  in  the  cham 
ber,  where  the  plain  sewing  was  done,  and  then  flitting  to 
her  own  room  in  quest  of  Valencia,  who  was  sent  QJ* 
divers  errands  of  mercy,  the  little  lady  thinking  that  aj 
the  time  for  her  marriage  was  so  near  it  would  be  proper 
for  her  to  stop  in-doors  and  not  show  herself  in  pub 
lic  quite  so  freely  as  she  had  been  in  the  habit  of  doing 
So  she  remained  at  home,  and  they  missed  her  in  the  back 
streets  and  by-lanes,  and  the  Widow  Hobbs,  who  was  still 
an  invalid,  pined  for  a  sight  of  her  bright  face,  and  was 

ouly  half  consoled   for  its  absence  by  the  charities  -which 
17* 


394  VALENCIA. 

Valencia  brought,  the  smart  waiting-maid  putting  on  a 
great  many  airs  and  making  Mrs.  Hobbs  feel  keenly  how 
greatly  she  thought  herself  demeaned  by  coming  to  such 
a  heathenish  place.  The  Hanoverians,  too,  missed  her 
hi  the  streets,  but  for  this  they  made  ample  amends  by 

discussing  the  preparations  at  Prospect  Hill  and  com- 

~<t 

menting  upon  the  bridal  trousseau,  which  was  sent  from 
New  York  the  week  before  Christmas,  thus  affording  a 
most  fruitful  theme  of  comment  for  the  women  and  maidfc 
engaged  in  trimming  the  church.  There  were  dresses  of 
every  conceivable  fashion,  it  Avas  said,  but  none  were 
quite  so  grand  as  the  wedding-dress  itself, — a  heavy 
white  silk  which  "  could  stand  alone,"  and  trailed  a  full 
yard  behind.  It  was  also  whispered  that,  not  content 
with  seeing  the  effect  of  her  bridal  robes  as  they  lay  upon 
the  bed,  Miss  Lucy  Harcourt  had  actually  tried  them  on, 
wreath,  veil,  and  all,  and  stood  before  the  glass  until  Miss 
Fanny  had  laughed  at  her  for  being  so  vain  and  foolish, 
and  said  she  was  a  pretty  specimen  for  a  sober  clergy 
man's  wife.  For  all  this  gossip  the  villagers  were  in 
debted  mostly  to  Valencia  Le  Barre,  who,  ever  since  her 
arrival  at  Prospect  Hill,  had  been  growing  somewhat  dis 
satisfied  with  the  young  mistress  she  had  expected  to  rule 
even  more  completely  than  she  had  ruled  Mrs.  Meredith. 
But  in  this  she  was  mistaken,  and  it  did  not  improve  hex 
never  very  amiable  temper  to  find  that  she  could  not  with 
safety  appropriate  more  than  half  her  mistress'  handkev 


VALENCIA.  39$ 

chiefs,  collars,  cuffs,  and  gloves,  to  say  nothing  of  per 
fumery  and  pomades  ;  and  as  this  was  a  new  state  of 
things  with  Valencia,  she  chafed  at  the  administration 
under  which  she  had  so  willingly  put  herself,  and  told 
things  of  her  mistress  which  no  sensible  servant  would 
ever  have  reported.  And  Lucy  gave  her  plenty  to  tell. 
Frank  and  outspoken  as  a  child,  she  acted  as  she  felt  and 
did  try  on  the  bridal  dress,  did  scream  with  delight  when 
Valencia  fastened  the  veil  and  let  its  fleecy  folds  fall 
gracefully  around  her. 

"  I  wonder  what  Arthur  will  think.  I  so  wish  he  was 
here,"  she  had  said,  ordering  a  glass  brought,  that  she 
might  see  herself  from  behind,  and  know  just  how  much 
her  dress  trailed,  and  how  it  looked  beneath  the  costly 
veil. 

She  was  very  beautiful  in  her  bridal  robes,  and  she 
kept  them  on  till  Fanny  began  to  chide  her  for  her  van 
ity,  and  even  then  she  lingered  before  the  mirror  as  if  loth 
to  take  them  off. 

"  I  don't  believe  in  presentiments,"  she  said,  "  but  do 
you  know  it  seems  to  me  just  as  if  I  should  never  wear 
this  again,"  and  she  smoothed  thoughtfully  the  folds  of 
the  heavy  silk  she  had  just  laid  upon  the  bed.  "  I  don't 
know  what  can  happen  to  prevent  it,  unless  Arthur 
should  die.  He  was  so  pale  last  Sunday,  and  seemed  so 
weak  that  I  shuddered  every  time  I  looked  at  him.  I 
mean  to  drive  round  there  this  afternoon,"  she  continued 


396  VALENCIA. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  too  cold  for  him  to  venture  out,  and  h« 
has  no  carriage,  either." 

Accordingly  she  went  to  the  rectory  that  afternoon, 
and  the  women  in  the  church  saw  her  as  she  drove  by, 
the  gorgeous  colors  of  her  carriage-blanket  flashing  in  the 
wintry  sunshine,  and  the  long  white  feather  in  her  hat 
waving  up  and  down  as  she  nodded  to  them.  There  was 
a  little  too  much  of  the  lady  patroness  about  her  to  suit 
the  plain  Hanoverians,  especially  those  who  were  neither 
high  enough  nor  low  enough  to  be  honored  with  her  no 
tice  ;  and  as  they  returned  to  their  wreath-making  and 
gossip,  they  wondered  under  their  breath  if  it  would  not 
on  the  whole  have  been  better  if  their  clergyman  had 
married  Anna  Huthven,  instead  of  the  fine  city  girl  with 
her  Parisian  manners:  As  they  said  this,  a  gleam  of  in 
telligence  shot  from  the  gray  eyes  of  Valencia  Le  Barre, 
who  was  there  at  work  in  a  most  unamiable  mood. 

"  She  did  not  like  to  stain  her  hands  with  the  nast) 
hemlock,  more  than  other  folks,"  she  had  said,  when,  aftei 
the  trying  on  of  the  bridal  dress,  Lucy  had  remonstrated 
wdth  her  for  some  duty  neglected,  and  then  bidden  her  go 
to  the  church  and  help  if  she  was  needed. 

"I  must  certainly  dismiss  you  unless  you  improve," 
Lucy  had  said  to  the  insolent  girl,  who  went  unwillingly 
to  the  church,  where  she  sat  tying  wreaths  when  tha 
farriage  went  by. 

She  had  thought  many  times  of  the  letter  she  had  read, 


VALENCIA.  397 

»nd  more  than  once  when  particularly  angry  it  had  bee» 
upon  her  lips  to  tell  her  mistress  that  she  was  not  Mr 
Leigh  ton'syirttJ  choice,  if  indeed  she  was  his  choice  at  all ; 
but  there  was  something  in  Lucy's  manner  which  held 
her  back,  besides  which  she  was  rather  unwilling  to  coi* 
fees  to  her  own  meanness  in  reading  the  stolen  letter. 

"  I  could  tell  them  something  if  I  would,"  she  thought, 
as  she  bent  over  the  hemlock  boughs,  and  listened  to  the 
remarks ;  but  for  that  time  she  kept  her  secret  and  worked 
on  moodily,  while  the  unsuspecting  Lucy  went  her  way, 
and  was  soon  alighting  at  the  parsonage-gate. 

Arthur  saw  her  as  she  came  up  the  walk,  and  went  out 
to  meet  her.  He  was  looking  very  pale  and  miserable, 
and  his  clothes  hung  loosely  upon  him,  but  he  welcomed 
her  kindly,  and  lead  her  in  to  the  fire,  and  tried  to  be 
lieve  that  he  was  glad  to  see  her  sitting  there  with  her 
little  high-heeled  boots  upon  the  fender,  and  the  bright 
hues  of  her  balmoral  just  showing  beneath  her  drets  of 
blue  merino.  She  went  all  over  the  house  as  she  us.'ially 
did,  suggesting  alterations  and  improvements,  and  greatly 
confusing  good  Mrs.  Brown,  who  trudged  obediently  after 
her,  wcndering  what  she  and  her  master  were  ever  to  do 
with  the  gay-plumaged  bird,  whose  ways  were  so  unlike 
their  own. 

"  You  must  drive  with  me  to  the  church,"  she  said  at 
*ast  to  Arthur.  "  Fresh  air  will  do  you  good,  ar.«l  you 
•tay  moped  up  too  much.  I  wanted  you  to-day  at  Proa 


898  VALENCIA. 

pect  Hill,  for  this  morning  the  express  from  New  York 
brought — "  she  stood  up  on  tiptoe  to  whisper  the  great 
news  to  him,  but  his  pulses  did  not  quicken  in  the  least, 
e^en  when  she  told  him  how  charming  was  the  bridal- 
dress. 

He  was  standing  before  the  mirror,  and  glancing  at 
himself,  he  said  half  laughingly,  half  sadly,  "  I  am  a  pit 
iful-looking  bridegroom  to  go  with  all  that  finery.  I 
should  not  think  you  w6uld  want  me,  Lucy." 

"  But  I  do,"  she  answered,  holding  his  hand  and  lead 
ing  him  to  the  carriage,  which  took  him  swiftly  to  the 
church. 

He  had  not  intended  going  there  as  long  as  there  was  an 
excuse  for  staying  away,  and  he  felt  himself  grow  sick  and 
faint  when  he  stood  amid  the  Christmas  decorations,  and 
remembered  the  last  year,  when  he  and  Anna  had  fastened 
the  wreaths  upon  the  wall.  They  were  trimming  the 
church  very  elaborately  in  honor  of  him  and  his  bride- 
elect,  and  white  artificial  flowers,  so  natural  that  they 
could  not  be  detected  from  the  real,  were  mixed  with 
scarlet  leaves  and  placed  among  the  mass  of  green.  The 
effect  was  very  fine,  and  Arthur  tried  to  praise  it,  but  his 
face  belied  his  words,  and  after  he  was  gone,  the  disap 
pointed  girls  declared  that  he  looked  more  like  a  mail 
about  to  be  hung,  than  one  so  soon  to  be  married. 

It  was  very  late  that  night  when  Lucy  summoned 
Valencia  to  comb  oue  her  long,  thick  curls,  and  Valencia 


VALENCIA.  899 

Wa»  I-irod  and  cross  and  sleepy,  and  handled  the  brash  so 
awkwardly,  and  snarled  her  mistress's  hair  so  often,  that 
Lucy  expostulated  with  her  sharply,  and  this  awoke  the 
slumbering  demon,  which,  bursting  into  full  life,  could 
no  longer  be  restrained,  and  in  amazement  which  kept 
her  silent,  Lucy  listened,  while  Valencia  vulgarly  taunted 
her  with  "  standing  in  Anna  Ruthven's  shoes,"  and  told 
all  she  knew  of  the  letter  stolen  by  Mrs.  Meredith,  and 
the  one  she  carried  to  Arthur.  But  Valencia's  anger 
quickly  cooled,  and  uhe  trembled  with  fear  when  she  saw 
how  deathly  white  her  mistress  grew,  and  even  heard  tha 
Joud  beating  of  the  heart  which  seemed  trying  to  burst 
from  its  prison,  and  fall  Weeding  at  the  feet  of  the  poor, 
wretched  girl,  around  whoad  lips  the  white  foam  gathered 
AS  she  motioned  Valencia  to  stop,  and  whispered  "  I  am 
dying." 

She  was  not  dying,  but  the  fainting-fit  which  ensued 
was  more  like  death  than  that  which  had  come  upon 
Anna  when  she  heard  that  Avttmr  was  lost.  Once  they 
really  thought  her  dead,  and  in  an  agony  of  remorse 
Valencia  hung  over  her,  accusing  herself  as  a  murderess, 
but  giving  no  other  explanation  to  those  around  her  than: 

"  I  was  combing  her  hair  when  the  white  froth  spirted 
edl  over  her  wrapper,  and  she  said  that  she  was  dying." 

And  that  was  all  the  family  know  of  the  strange  attack 
which  lasted  till  the  dawn  of  day,  a\\\l  left  upon  Lucy'i 
face  a  look  as  if  years  and  years  of  tunguish  had  passed 


400  VALENCIA. 

over  her  young  head,  and  left  its  footprints  behind, 
Early  in  the  morning  she  asked  to  see  Valencia  alone, 
and  the  repentant  girl  went  to  her,  prepared  to  take  back 
all  she  had  said,  aud  declare  the  whole  a  lie.  But  some 
thing  in  Lucy's  manner  wrung  the  truth  from  her,  and 
she  repeated  the  story  again  so  clearly,  that  Lucy  had  no 
longer  a  doubt  that  Anna  was  preferred  to  herself,  and 
sending  Valencia  away,  she  moaned  piteously  : 

«  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?     What  is  my  duty  ?  " 

The  part  which  hurt  her  most  of  all  was  the  terrible 
certainty  that  Arthur  did  not  love  her,  as  he  loved  Anna 
Ruthven.  She  seemed  intuitively  to  understand  it  all, 
and  see  how  in  an  unguarded  moment  he  had  offered 
himself  to  save  her  good  name  from  gossip,  and  how  ever 
since  his  life  had  been  a  constant  struggle  to  do  his  duty 
by  her. 

"  Poor  Arthur,"  she  sobbed,  "  yours  has  been  9,  hard 
lot,  trying  to  act  the  love  you  did  not  feel ;  but  it  iftall  be 
BO  no  longer,  for  I  will  set  you  froe." 

This  was  her  final  decision,  but  she  did  not  re<  ch  it  till 
a  Ofc/  and  night  had  passed,  during  which  sh<  lay  with 
hei  face  turned  to  the  wall,  saying  she  wantf  <  nothing 
except  to  be  left  alone. 

"  When  I  can,  I'll  tell  you,"  she  had  said  to  /anny  and 
ner  aunt,  who  insisted  upon  knowing  the  «  ise  of  her 
distress.  "  When  I  can,  I'll  tell  you  all  about  It.  Leav* 
toe  alone  till  tben." 


VALENCIA.  401 

So  they  ceased  to  worry  her,  but  Fanny  sat  constantly 
in  the  room  watching  the  motionless  figure,  which  took 
whatever  she  offered,  but  otherwise  gave  no  sign  of  life 
uiitil  the  morning  of  the  second  day,  when  it  turned 
slowly  towards  her,  and  the  livid  lips  quivered  piteously 
and  made  an  {ftampt  to  smile  as  they  said : 

"  I  can  tell  you  now.     I  have  made  up  my  mind." 

Fanny's  eyes  were  dim  with  the  truest  tears  she  had 
ever  shed  when  Lucy's  story  was  ended,  and  her  voice 
was  very  low  as  she  asked  : 

"  And  you  mean  to  give  him  up  at  this  late  hour  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  mean  to  give  him  up.  I  have  been  over  the 
entire  ground  many  times,  even  to  the  deep  humiliation 
of  what  people  will  say,  and  I  have  come  each  time  to 
the  same  conclusion.  It  is  right  that  Arthur  should  be 
released,  and  I  shall  release  him." 

"  And  what  will  you  do  ?  "  Fanny  asked,  gazing  in 
wonder  and  awe  at  the  young  girl,  who  answered  :  "  I  do 
not  know ;  I  have  not  thought.  I  guess  God  will  take 
care  of  that." 

And  God  did  take  care  of  that,  and  inclined  the  Heth- 
erton  family  to  be  very  kind  and  tender  towards  her, 
and  kept  Arthur  from  the  house  until  the  Christmas  dec 
orations  were  completed  and  the  Christmas  festival  was 
held.  Many  were  the  inquiries  made  for  Lucy  on 
Christmas  Eve,  and  many  thanks  and  wishes  for  her 
speedy  restoration  were  sent  to  her  by  those  whom  shf 


402  VALENCIA. 

had  so  bountifully  remembered.  Thornton  Hastings, 
too,  who  had  come  to  town  and  .was  present  at  the 
church  on  Christmas  Eve,  asked  for  her  with  almost  as 
much  interest  as  Arthur,  who  bade  Fanny  tell  her  that 
iie  should  call  on  her  on  the  morrow  after  the  morning 
service. 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  see  him  here !  I  must  tell  him  at  the 
rectory  in  the  very  room  where  he  asked  me  to  be  his 
wife,"  Lucy  said,  when  Fanny  reported  Arthur's  mes- 
isage.  "  I  am  able  to  ride  there,  and  it  will  be  fine 
eleighing  to-morrow.  See,  the  snow  is  falling  now,"  and 
pushing  back  the  curtain  Lucy  looked  drearily  Out  upon 
the  fast- whitening  ground,  sighing  as  she  remembered  the 
night  when  the  first  snow-flakes  were  falling,  and  she 
stood  watching  them  with  Arthur  at  he,r  side. 

Fanny  did  not  oppose  her  cousin,  and  with  a  kiss 
upon  the  blue- veined  forehead,  she  went  to  her  own 
room  and  left  aer  to  think  for  the  hundredth  time  what 
she  should  say  to  Arthur. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

CHRISTMAS   DAY. 

f 

|IIE  worshippers  at  St.  Mark's  on  Christmas 
morning  heard  the  music  of  the  bells  as  the 
Hetherton  sleigh  dashed  by,  but  none  of  them 
knew  whither  it  was  bound  or  dreamed  of  the  scene 
which  awaited  the  rector  when  after  the  services  were  over 
he  started  towards  home.  Lucy  had  kept  to  her  resolu 
tion,  and  j  ust  as  Mrs.  Brown  was  looking  at  the  clock  to  see 
if  it  was  time  to  put  her  fowls  to  bake,  she  heard  the 
hall  door  open  softly,  and  almost  dropped  her  dripping- 
pan  in  her  surprise  at  the  sight  of  Lucy  Harcourt,  who 
looked  so  mournfully  at  her  as  she  said  : 

"  I  want  to  go  to  Arthur's  room, — the  library,  J 
mean." 

"  Why,  child,  what  is  the  matter  ?  I  heard  you  was 
sick,  but  did  not  s'spose  'twas  anything  very  lad.  You 
are  paler  than  a  ghost,"  Mrs.  Brown  exclaimed,  as  she 
tried  to  unfasten  Lucy's  hood  and  cloak  and  lead  her  to 
the  fire. 

But  Lucy  was  not  cold,  and  would  rather  go  at  once 
to  Arthur's  room.  So  Mrs.  Brown  made  no  objection, 


,404  CHRISTMAS  DAT. 

though  she  wondered  if  the  girl  was  crazy  as  she  went 
back  to  her  fowls  and  Christmas  pudding,  and  left  Lucy 
to  find  her  way  alone  to  Arthur's  study,  which  looked  so 
like  its  owner,  with  his  dressing-gown  across  the  lounge 
just  where  he  had  thrown  it,  his  slippers  on  the  rug,  and 
his  aim-chair  standing  near  the  table,  where  he  had  sat 
when  he  asked  Lucy  to  be  his  wife,  and  where  she  now 
sat  down,  panting  heavily  for  breath  and  gazing  drearily 
around  with  the  look  of  a  frightened  bird  when  seeking 
for  some  avenue  of  escape  from  an  appalling  danger. 
There  was  no  escape,  and  with  a  moan  she  laid  her  head 
upon  the  writing-table,  and  prayed  that  Arthur  migh* 
come  quickly  while  she  had  sense  and  strength  to  tell 
him.  She  heard  his  step  at  last,  and  rose  up  to  meet 
him,  smiling  a  little  at  his  sudden  start  when  he  SLW  her 
there. 

"  It's  only  I,"  she  said,  shedding  back  the  curls  from 
her  pallid  face  and  grasping  the  chair  to  steady  herself 
and  keep  from  falling.  "  I  am  not  hero  to  frighten  or 
worry  you.  I've  come  to  do  you  good,  — to  set  you  free. 
O  Arthur,  you  do  not  know  how  1/jnibly  you  have 
been  wronged,  and  I  did  not  know  ic  cither  till  a  few 
days  ago  !  She  never  received  your  leUer, — Anna  never 
did.  If  she  had  she  would  have  answered  yes  and  been 
in  my  place  now ;  but  she  is  going  to  be  tacr*.  I  give 
you  up  to  Anna.  I'm  here  to  tell  you  so  But  0 
r,  it  hurts, — it  hurts — " 


CHRISTMAS  DAT.  405 

He  knew  it  hurt  by  the  agonized  expression  of  her 
lace,  bu*  he  could  not  go  near  her  for  a  moment,  so  great 
was  }  is  surprise  at  what  he  saw  and  heard.  But  when 
the  first  shock  for  them  both  was  past,  ai  d  he  could 
listen  to  her  more  rational  account  of  what  she  knew  and 
what  she  was  there  to  do,  he  refused  to  listen.  He 
knew  it  all  before,  and  he  would  not  be  free ;  he  would 
keep  his  word,  he  said.  Matters  had  gone  too  far  to  be 
so  su-ldenly  ended ;  he  held  her  to  her  promise,  and  she 
must  be  his  wife. 

"Gin  you  tell  me  truly  that  you  love  me  more  than 
Anna  ?  "  Lucy  asked,  a  ray  of  hope  dawning  for  an  in- 
ntant  upon  her  heart,  but  fading  into  utter  darkness  aa 
Arthv  r  hesitated  to  answer  her. 

He  did  love  Anna  best,  though  never  had  Lucy  been 
BO  near  supplanting  her  as  at  that  moment  when  she 
stood  before  him  and  told  him  he  was  free.  There  was 
something  in  the  magnitude  of  her  generosity  which 
couched  him  closely,  and  made  her  dearer  to  him  than 
she  had  ever  been. 

"  I  can  make  you  very  happy,"  he  said  at  last,  and 
Lucy  replied,  "  Yes,  but  how  with  yourself?  Would  you 
be  happy  too  ?  No,  Arthur,  you  would  not,  and  neither 
*hould  I,  knowing  what  I  do.  It  is  best  that  we  should 
part,  though  it  almost  breaks  my  heart,  for  I  have  loved 
you  so  much." 

She   stopped   for  breath,  and  Arthur  was  wondering 


406  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

what  he  should  say  next,  when  a  cheery  whistle  sounded 
near,  and  Thornton  Hastings  appeared  in  the  door.  He 
had  just  returned  from  the  post-office,  whither  he  had 
gone  after  church,  and  not  knowing  any  one  but  Arthur 
was  in  the  library,  had  coine  there  at  once. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  when  he  saw  Lucy  ;  and 
he  was  hurrying  away,  but  Lucy  called  him  back,  feeling 
that  in  him  she  would  find  a  powerful  ally  to  aid  her  in 
her  task. 

Appealing  to  him  as  Arthur's  friend,  she  repeated 
Valencia's  story  rapidly,  and  then  went  on :  "  Anna 
never  knew  of  that  letter, — or  she  would  have  answered 
yes.  I  know  she  loves  him,  for  I  can  remember  a  thou 
sand  things  which  prove  it,  and  I  know  he  has  loved  her 
best  all  the  time,  even  when  trying  so  hard  to  love  me. 
Oh,  how  it  hurts  me  to  think  he  had  to  try  to  love  me 
who  loved  him  so  much.  But  that  is  all  past  now.  I 
give  him  up  to  Anna,  and  you  must  help  me  as  if  I  were 
your  sister.  Tell  him  it  is  best.  He  must  not  argue 
against  me,  for  I  feel  myself  giving  way  through  my 
great  love  for  him,  and  I  know  it  is  not  right.  Tell  him, 
Mr.  Hastings ;  plead  my  cause  for  me ;  say  what  a  true 
woman  ought  to  say,  for,  believe  me,  I  am  in  earnest  in 
giving  him  to  Anna." 

There  was  a  ghastly  hue  upon  her  face,  and  her  feat 
ures  looked  pinched  and  rigid,  but  the  terrible  heart 
beats  were  not  there.  God  in  His  great  mercy  kept  them 


CHRISTMAS  DAT.  407 

back,  else  she  had  surely  died  under  that  strong  excite 
ment.  Thornton  thought  she  was  fainting,  and  going 
hastily  to  her  side,  passed  his  arm  around  her  and  put 
her  in  the  chair ;  then  standing  by  her,  he  said  just  what 
first  caine  into  his  mind  to  say.  It  was  a  delicate  matter 
in  which  to  interfere,  but  he  handled  it  carefully,  telling 
frankly  what  had  passed  between  himself  and  Anna,  jfnd 
giving  as  his  opinion,  that  she  loved  Arthur  to-day  just 
as  well  as  before  she  left  Hanover. 

"  Then  it  is  surely  right  for  Arthur  to  marry  her,  and 
he  must !  "  Lucy  exclaimed  vehemently,  while  Thornton 
laid  his  hand  pityingly  upon  her  head,  and  said,  "  And 
only  you  be  sacrificed." 

There  was  something  wonderfully  tender  in  the  tone 
of  Thornton's  voice,  and  Lucy  glanced  quickly  at  him 
while  her  eyes  filled  with  the  first  tears  she  had  shed 
since  she  came  into  the  room. 

"  I  am  willing ;  I  am  ready ;  I  have  made  u?  mj- 
mind,  and  I  shall  never  unmake  it,"  she  answered^  while 
Arthur  put  in  a  feeble  remonstrance. 

But  Thornton  was  on  Lucy's  side,  and  did  with  his 
cooler  judgment  what  she  could  not ;  and  when  at  lisk  the 
interview  was  ended,  there  was  no  ring  on  Lucy's  fore  anger, 
for  Arthur  held  it  in  his  hand,  and  their  engagement  waa 
at  an  end.  Stunned  with  what  he  had  passed  through, 
lie  stood  motionless  while  Thornton  drew  Lu'/y's  cloak 
»bout  her  shoulders,  fastened  her  fur,  tied  oc  her 


408  CHRISTMAS  DAT. 

hood,  and  took  such  care  of  her  as  a  mjtt/er  wculd  take 
of  a  suffering  child. 

"  It  is  hardly  safe  to  send  her  home  alone,"  he  thought, 
!M  he  looked  into  her  face  and  saw  how  weak  she  was. 
fl*  As  a  friend  of  both  I  ought  to  accompany  her." 

She  was  indeed  so  weak  that  she  could  scarcely  stand, 
and  Thornton  took  her  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  to  the 
sleigh ;  then  springing  in  beside  her,  he  made  her  lean  her 
tired  head  upon  his  shoulder  as  they  drove  to  Prospect 
RCill.  She  did  not  seem  frivolous  to  him  now,  but  rather 
the  noblest  type  of  womanhood  he  had  ever  met.  Few 
could  have  done  what  she  had,  and  there  was  much  of 
warmth  and  fervor  in  the  clasp  of  his  hand  as  he  bade 
her  .good-by,  and  went  back  to  the  rectory. 

Great  was  the  consternation  and  surprise  in  Hanover 
when  it  was  known  that  there  was  to  be  but  one  bride 
at  Prospect  Hill  on  the  night  of  the  15th,  and  various 
•«rere  the  surmises  as  to  the  cause  of  the  sudden  change  ; 
but  strive  as  they  might,  the  good  people  of  the  village 
could  not  get  at  the  truth,  for  Valencia  held  her  peace, 
while  the  Hethertons  were  far  too  proud  to  admit  of 
their  being  questioned,  and  Thornton  Hastings  stood  a 
bulwark  of  defence  between  the  people  and  the  clergy  man, 
and  managed  to  have  the  pulpit  at  St.  Mark's  supplied  for 
to  few  weeks,  while  he  took  Arthur  away,  saying  that  hii 
Irealth  requirsd  the  change. 


CHRISTMAS  DAT.  409 

'*  You  have  done  nobly,  darling,"  Fanny  Hetherton 
iwid  said  to  Lucy  when  she  received  her  from  Thornton's 
Hands  and  heard  that  all  was  over.  Then,  leading  her 
half-fainting  cousin  to  her  own  cheerful  room,  she  made 
her  lie  down  while  she  told  her  of  the  plan  she  haj 
formed  when  first  she  heard  what  Lucy's  intentions  were. 
"  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Bellamy  asking  if  he  would  take  a  trip 
to  Europe,  so  that  you  could  go  with  us,  for  I  knew  you 
would  not  wish  to  stay  here.  To-day  I  have  his  answer 
saying  he  will  go;  and  what  is  better  yet,  father  and 
mother  are  going,  too." 

"  Oh  I  am  so  glad  !  I  could  not  stay  here  now,"  Lucy 
•eplied,  sobbing  herself  to  sleep,  while  Fanny  sat  by  and 
watched,  wondering  at  the  strength  which  had  upheld  her 
weak  little  cousin  in  the  struggle  she  had  been  through, 
and  feeling,  too,  that  it  was  just  as  well,  for  after  all  it 
was  a  mesalliance  for  an  heiress  like  her  cousin  to  marry 
*  poor  clergyman. 

There  was  a  great  wedding  at  Prospect  Hill  on  the 
night  of  the  15th,  but  neither  Lucy  nor  Arthur  were 
there.  He  lay  sick  again  at  the  St.  Denis,  in  New  Y^rk, 
and  she  was  alone  in  her  chamber  fighting  back  her  voara, 
and  praying  that  now  che  worst  was  over  she  might  be 
withheld  from  looking  back  and  wishing  the  work  undone. 
She  went  with  the  bridal  party  to  New  York,  where  she 
tarried  for  a  few  days,  but  saw  no  one  but  Anna,  foi 
18 


£10  CHRISTMAS  DAT. 

whom  she  sent  at  once.  The  interview  lasted  more  than 
KO.  hour,  and  Anna's  eyes  were  swollen  with  weeping 
when  at  last  it  ended  ;  but  Lucy's  face,  though  white  aa 
SP.OW,  was  very  calm  and  quiet,  and  wore  a  peaceful,  placid 
look  which  made  it  like  the  face  of  an  angel.  Two  weeks 
later,  and  the  steamer  Java  bore  her  away  across  the 
water,  where  she  hoped  to  outlive  the  storm  which  had 
beaten  so  piteously  upon  her.  Thornton  Hastings  and 
Anna  went  with  her  on  board  the  ship,  and  for  their  sakea 
she  tried  to  appear  natural,  succeeding  so  well  that  it  was 
a  very  pleasant  picture,  which  Thornton  kept  in  his  mind, 
of  a  frail  little  figure  standing  upon  the  deck,  holding  ita 
"rater-proof  together  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other 
wa\ing  a  smiling  adieu  to  Anna  and  himself. 

More  than  a  year  later  Thornton  Hastings  followed 
that  figure  across  the  sea,  and  found  it  in  beautiful 
Venice,  sailing  again  through  the  moonlit  streets,  and 
•istening  to  the  music  which  came  so  oft  from  the  passing 
gondolas.  It  had  recovered  its  former  roundness,  and 
the  face  was  even  more  beautiful  than  it  had  been  before, 
for  the  light  frivolity  was  gone,  and  there  was  in  its  stead 
a  peaceful,  subdued  expression  which  made  Lucy  Har- 
court  more  attractive  than  she  had  ever  been.  At  least 
BO  Thornton  Hastings  thought,  and  he  lingered  at  hoi 
side,  and  felt  glad  that  she  gave  no  outward  token  of  ugi« 
tation  when  he  said  to  her  : 

"  There  vas  a  wedding  at  St.  Mark's  in  Hancver  ju«* 


DAY.  4H 

b  fore  I  lefL  Can  you  guess  who  *.he  happy  couple 
were?" 

"  Yes,  Arthur  and  Anna.  She  wrote  me  they  vero  to 
be  married  on  Christmas  eve.  I  am  so  glad  it  has  come 
around  at  last." 

Then  she  questioned  him  of  the  bridal, — of  Arthur, — 
and  even  of  Anna's  dress,  her  manner  evincing  that  the 
old  wound  had  healed,  or  was  healing  very  fast,  and  that 
soon  only  a  scar  would  remain  to  tell  where  it  had 
been. 

And  so  the  days  went  on  beneath  the  sunny  Italian 
skies,  until  one  glorious  night  in  Rome,  when  they  sat  to 
gether  amid  the  ruins  of  the  Colosseum,  and  Thornton 
spoke  his  mind,  alluding  to  the  time  when  each  had  loved 
another,  expressing  himself  as  glad  that  in  his  case  the 
matter  had  ended  as  it  did,  and  then  asking  Lucy  if  she 
could  conscientiously  be  his  wife. 

"  What!  You  marry  a  frivolous  plaything  like  me?  M 
Lucy  asked,  her  woman's  pride  flashing  up  once  more, 
but  this  time  playfully,  as  Thornton  knew  by  the  joyous 
light  in  her  eye. 

She  told  him  what  she  meant,  and  how  she  hr.d  hated 

him  for  it,  and  then  they  laughed  together,  but  Thornton  a 

ki'is  smothered  the  laugh  on  Lucy's  lips,  for  he  guessed 

A  hat  her  answer  was,  and  that  this,  his  second   wooing, 

raa  mure  successful  than  his  first  had  been. 


412  CHRISTMAS  DAT. 

"  MARRIED,  in  Rome,  on  Thursday,  A  pril  10th,  Tnorur 
TON  HASTINGS,  ESQ.,  of  New  York  City,  to  Miss  Luci 
UARCOURT,  also  of  New  York,  and  niece  of  Colonel 
James  Hethertoa." 

Anna  was  out  in  the  rectory  garden  bending  over  a 
bed  of  hyacinths  when  Arthur  brought  her  the  paper 
and  pointed  to  the  notice. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad,  so  glad,  so  GLAD  !  "  she  exclaimed, 
emphasizing  each  successive  glad  a  little  more,  and  set 
ting  down  her  foot  as  if  to  give  it  force.  "  I  have  never 
dared  be  quite  as  happy  with  you  as  I  might,"  she  roa- 
tinued,  leaning  lovingly  against  her  husband,  "  for  there 
was  always  a  thought  of  Lucy,  and  what  a  fearful  price 
she  paid  for  our  happiness.  But  now  it  is  all  as  it  should 
be,  and,  Arthur,  am  I  very  vain  in  thinking  that  she  is 
better  suited  to  Thornton  Hastings  than  I  ever  was,  and 
that  1  do  better  as  your  wife  than  Lucy  would  have 
done  ?  " 

A  kiss  was  Arthur's  only  answer,  but  Anna  was  satis 
fied,  and  there  rested  upon  her  face  a  look  of  perfect  con 
tent  as  all  that  warm  spring  afternoon  she  walked  in 
aer  pleasant  garden,  thinking  of  the  newly  married  pair 
:u  Rome,  and  glancing  occasionally  at  the  open  window 
)t  the  library  where  Arthur  was,  busy  with  his  sermon, 
tiis  pen  moving  all  the  faster  for  the  knowing  that  Anna 
vas  just  within  his  call, — that  by  turning  his  head  he 
could  see  her  dfar  face,  and  that  by  and  by,  when  hit 


OHRfSJWAft  DAY.  413 

work  was  done,  she  would  como  in  to  him,  an  1  \"ii  I  h.M- 
lov' n qj  words  and  \\  insoiue  ways  make  him  for,;ot  ho» 
tl  he  was,  and  thank  Heaven  again  for  the  gtebt  gift 
^d  vrhen  it  gave  him  Anna  Ruthven. 


1882 


1882. 


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25 

I.  CO 

i  oo 
i  oo 

1  CO 
I  OO 
I  00 


G.    IV.     CARLETON 


CO:S    PUBLICATIONS. 


Miscellaneous    "Works. 

Dawn  to  Noon — By  Violet  Fane..$i  50  i  Victor  Hugo — Autobiography 


Fat 


Do. 


H  jw  to  Win  .in  Wall  Street  ____  i  oo 

Poe-ns  —  By  Mrs.  151  >omficld  Moore,  i  s> 

A  Bad  Boy's  First  Reader  ......  10 

John  Swiuton's  Travels  .........  25 

Sarah  Bsmhardt—  Her  Life  ........  25 

Arc.ic  Travel  —  Isaac  I.  Hayes  ____  i  50 

Cjllegj  Tramps  —  F   A.  Stokes....  i  50 

H.   JVl.   S.   Pinafore—  The  Play  ..... 


i  50  |  Orpheus  C.   K:  rr     4 


in  one.      2  co 

Fanny  Fern  Memorials 200 

Parodies— C.  H.  Webb  (John  Paul),  i  50 
My  Vacation —  Do.  Do.  .  i  53 

Sandwiches — Artemus  Ward 23 

Watchman  of  the  Night i  50 

Nonsense  Rhymes — W.H.  Beckett  i  co- 
Lord  Bateman  — Cruikbhank's  111..  25 
Northern  Ballads — E.  L.  Anderson 


A  Steamer  Book— W.  T.  Helmuth.  i  oo     Beldazzle  Bachelor  Poems i  oo 


Li_.n  Jack—  By  I'.  T.  Barnum i  50 

Jack  in  the  Jungle.       Do i  50 

Gosp-lsin  Poetry— R.  H.  Kimball.  i  50 

Southern  Woman  Story — Pember  75 

Madame  Le  V-jrt's — Souvenirs   ...  2  oo 

He  and  I — Sarah  15.  Stebbins 50 

Annals  of  a  Baby.       Do 50 


Me — Mrs.  Spencer  W.  Coe 50 

Little  Guzzy — John  Habberton. . .  .  i  oo 

Offenbach  in  America i  50 

About  Lawyers — Jcffreson 15° 

About  Doctors —        Do 150 

Widow  Spriggins — Widow  Beoott.  i  50 

How  to  Make  Money — Davits... .  i  50 


Sub  Ros\— Chas.  T.  Murray $i  50 

Hilda  and  I — E.  Bedell  Benjamin,    i  50 

Madame — Frank  Lee  Benedict i  50 

Hammer  and  Anvil.        Do.     ....    i  50 

Her  Friend  Liwrence.    Do i  50 

A  C  >ll25e  Widow — C.  H.Seymour   i  50 

Shiftless  Folks — Fannie  Smith i  50 

Peace  Pelican.  Do.  i  50 

Prairie  Flower— Emerson  Bennett,  i  50 
Rose  of  Memphis — W.  C.  Falkner.  i  50 
Price  of  a  Life — R.  Forbes  Sturgis.  i  50 
Hidden  Power  - 1'.  H.  Tibbies....  i  50 
Two  Brides  — Bernard  O'Reilly  ...  i  50 

Sorry  Her  Lot — Miss  Grant i  oo 

Two  of  Us— Calista  Halsey 75 

Spell-Bound— Alex  indre  Dumas...  75 
Cupid  on  Crutches— A.  B.  Wood..  75 

Doctor  Antonio — G.  Ruffini i  50 

Parson  Thome — Buckingham i  50 

Marston  Hall — L.  Kila  Byrd i  50 

Ange — Florence  Marryatt i  co 

Errors — Ruth  Carter i   TO 

Heart's  Delight— Mrs.  Alderdice.. 
Unmistakable  Flirtation — Garner. 

Wild  Oats— Florence  Marryatt 

Widow  Cherry — B.  L.  Farjeon... 
Solomon  Isaacs.  Do.  .... 

Led  Astray — Octave  Feuillet 

She  Loved  Him  Madly — Borys... 

Thick  and  Thin  — Mery 

So  F  lir  yet  False— Chavette 

A  Fatal  Passion — C.  Bernard 

Woman  in  the  Case — B.  Turner.. 
Marguerite's  Journal  —  For  Girls. . 
Edith  Murray — Joanna  Math  '\vs.. 
Doctor  Mortimer — Fannie  Bi'an... 
Outwitted  at  Last — S.  A.  Gardner 

Vesta  Vane— L.  King,  R 

Louise  and  I— C.  R.  Dodge 

My  Queen — By  Saixietie 

Fallen  among  Thieves — Rayne. .. 
San  Miniato — Mrs.  Hamilton 


Miscellaneous    Novels. 


i  50 
75 

i  5° 
75 
.5° 
I  5° 
i  5° 
i  5° 
I  5° 
i  5° 
i  5° 
i  5° 
i  oo 


AH  For  Her— A  Tale  of  New  York.. $i  oo 

All  For  Him— By  All  For  Her i  oo 

For  Each  Other  Do i  oo 

Peccavi— Emma  Wenc^ler i 

Conquered — By  a  New  Author i 

Janet — An  English  novel i 

Saint  Leger — kichard   B.  Kimball.  i 

Was  He  Successful  ?  Do.     .  i 

Undercurrents  of  Wall  St.  Do.     .  i 

Romance  of  Student  Life.  Do.     .  i 

To-Day.  Do.     .  i 

Life  in  Gan  Domingo.  Do.     .  i 

Henry  Powers,  Banker.      Do.     .  i 

Baroness  of  N.  Y.-joaquin  Miller  i 

One  Fair  Woman.  Do.  i 

Another  Man's  Wife— Mrs.  Hartt  i 

Purple  and  Fine  Linen — Fawcett.  i 

Pauline's  Trial — L    D.  Courtney.,  i 

The  Forgiving  Kiss — M.  Loth i 

Flirtation— A  West  Point  novel i 

Loyal  into  Death i 

That  Av/ful  Boy 

That  Bridget  of  Ours 

Bitterwood — By  M.  A.   Green i 

Phemie  Frost— Ann  S.  Stephens.,  i 

Charette — An  American  no\el i 

Fairfax — John  Esten  Cooke i 

Hilt  to  Hilt.  Do i 

Out  of  the  Foam.          Do i 

Hammer  and  Rapier.  Do    i 

Warwick— By  M.  T.  Wai  worth. ...  i 


Lulu. 
Hotspur. 
!•  tormcliff. 
Delaplaine. 
Beverly. 


Do. 
Do. 
Do. 
Do. 

Do. 


Kenneth— Sallie  A.  Brock i 

Heart  Hungry — Westmoreland. i 

Clifford  Troupe —         Do.          i 

Hlcott  Mill— Maria  D.  Deslonde..  i 


John  Ma-ibel. 
Love's  Vengeance. 


Do. 


A  VALUABLE  NEW  BOOK  j 

Tlntt  fihouftl  be  on  every  Scholar's  Table. 
CARLETON'S    HAND-BOOK 

POPULAR   QUOTATIONS. 

A  !)(>ok  of  Ready  Reference  for  such  phrases,  extracts 
and  Familiar  Quotations  from  popular  authors,  as  aie 
oftem-st  met  with  in  general  literature  ;  together  with 
their  authorship  and  position  in  the  original.  Embracing, 
also,  the  best  list  of  quotations  from  foreign  languages 
ever  published.  Elegantly  printed  and  bound.  Price, $1.50. 


If  you  want  to  find  any  Familiar  Quotation,  appropriate  to  any 
particular  Subject  or  Sentiment — this  book  will  give  it  to  you. 

If  you  want  to  know  who  is  the  author,  and  where  any  particular 
Familiar  Quotation  comes  from — this  book  will  tell  you. 

If  you  remember  part  of  a  Familiar  Quotation  and  want  to  know 
the  whole  of  it,  and  know  it  exactly — this  book  will  tell  you. 

If  you  want  to  know  the  exact  meaning  and  correctness  of  any 
Latin,  French  or  Familiar  Quotation,  in  any  Foreign  language — 
this  book  will  tell  you. 

If  you  simply  want  a  delightful  book  to  have  lying  upon  youi 
table,  ronvenient  to  pick  up  and  entertain  you  with  charming  and 
Familiar  thoughts  and  Quotations  of  all  authors — this  is  the  book 
that  will  exactly  suit  you.  *  *  *  There's  none  more  fascinating 
Li  the  English  language. 

%*  The  demand  for  this  remarkable  work  is  enormous.  Thr 
ov.'ijlisherj  can  hardly  print  them  fast  enough.  They  are  for  sale  by 
»very  bookse.ler,  and  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage  free,  on  receipt  c'. 
the  price,  $1.50,  by 

G.  W.   CARLETON  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

Madison  Square,  New    York 


CHARLES   DICKENS'   WORKS. 

A  NEW        tOj>        EDITION. 


Among  the  many  editions  of  the  works  of  this  greatest  of 
English  Novelists,  there  has  not  been  until  now  one  that  entirely 
satisfies  the  public  demand. — Without  exception,  they  each  havt 
some  strong  distinctive  objection, — either  the  form  and  dimen 
sicns  of  the  volumes  are  unhandy — or,  the  type  is  small  am) 
indistinct — or,  the  illustrations  are  unsatisfactory — or,  the  bind 
ing  is  poor — or,  the  price  is  too  high. 

An  entirely  new  edition  is  now,  however,  published  by  G.  W 
Carleton  &  Co.,  of  New  York,  which,  in  every  respect,  com 
fletely  satisfies  the  popular  demand. — It  is  known  as 

"Carleton's  New  Illustrated  Edition." 

COMPLETE  IN  15  VOLUMES. 

The  size  and  form  is  most  convenient  for  holding, — the  type  is 
entire!)'  new,  and  of  a  clear  and  open  character  that  has  received 
the  approval  of  the  reading  community  in  other  wo^ks. 

The  illustrations  are  by  the  original  artists  chosen  by  Charles 
Dickens  himself — and  the  paper,  printing,  and  binding  are  of  an 
attractive  and  substantial  character. 

This  beautiful  new  edition  is  complete  in  15  volumes — at  the 
extremely  reasonable  price  of  $1.50  per  volume,  as  follows  • — 

I. — PICKWICK  PAPERS  AND  CATALOGUE. 

2. — OLIVER  TWIST. — UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

3. — DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

4. — GREAT  EXPECTATIONS. — ITALY  AND  AMERICA 

5- — DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

6. — BARNABY  RUDGE  AND  EDWIN  DROOD. 

7. — NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 

8. — CURIOSITY  SHOP  AND  MISCELLANEOUS. 

9. — BLEAK  HOUSE. 
IO. — LITTLE  DORRIT. 
II. — MARTIN  CHUZZLEWIT. 
12. — OUR  MUTUAL  FRIEND. 
13. — CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. — TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 
14. — SKETCHES  BY  BOZ  AND  HARD  TIMES. 
15.— CHILD'S  ENGLAND  AND  MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  first  yolume — Pickwick  Papers — contains  an  alphabetira! 
catalogue  of  all  of  Charles  Dickens'  writings,  with  their  ex?d 
positions  in  the  volumes. 

This  edition  is  sold  by  Booksellers,  everywhere — and  F'oglc 
specimen  copies  will  be  forwarded  by  mail,  postage  free,  en  re 
ceipt  of  price,  $1.50,  by 

G.  W.  CARLETON  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

Madison  Square,  New  York. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


orm  L9-17m-8,'55  (B3339s4)444 


Holmes  - 


I9k9     «est  Lawn 


L882 


PS 

191*9 

H8w 

1882 


UC  SOUTHERN  REG  ONALU=. 


000025274 


